one aspect of chronic insomnia is
by far most telling with
the almost complete erosion of
the faculty of dreaming -
     dreams still exist -
    but they become less and less
adjusted / informed by
a first-person type of narration -
they actually become dislodged
from an order of any sort of
narrative -
    if dreams are merely hallucinations
experience in the safety of sleep,
for dreams are just that:
   hallucinations in the safety of sleep...
  the "sober" speech of
                 acid junkies in the land
of nod...
              yet there's another aspect
of chronic insomnia -
           and this is beside a need to
invoke sudden alcohol withdraw -
            alcohol withdraw is more
associated with the digestive system than
other biological systems of
   irritated nerves from this most,
pleasant sedative...
          alcohol withdraw is peppered
with the inability to find a desire for
food...
            the onset of fasting and,
by this time, nearing being awake for
a solid 24 hours...
        cold sweats...
                         a lack of sleep produces
this outbursts of cold sweats...
but unlike the sweat ascribed to
a feverish body...
            you're not exactly sweating as such...
you're shivering...
hence why the cold sweats
       cool your body,
        by an intimidation of sponatenous
shivers... probably akin to
a woman experiencing a multiple ******...
when a woman is having
a multiple ******,
     she shivers, shakes,
    like a pseudo-epileptic...
                          but the fact that i've
spent the past 24 hours awake will
always translate into an erosion of
a "need" to dream...
                 and i much prefer the grave
of the void of nox to some
flamboyancy of a theme park where:
i have to be entertained because
my life is so, ******* dull...
          my life? simple -
i find looking at inanimate objects
with the same fascination as a cat...
   they're not moving,
yet compose the must animate of objects:
earth.
              ah, the cold sweats can
be painful for a bit,
                   and that's really extending
into a descriptive territory that's
excessive depicted as "painful".
              if i can't trust my thoughts
sometimes, why would i suddenly throw
myself blindly before the carriage of dreams,
and become an acid ****** in sleep?
             as shakespeare's hamlet could
be replied with, concerning
  i could be bounded in a nutshell,
and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that i have bad dreams;
chronic insomnia erodes dreams -
and by the erosion of dream -
  the king of infinite space resides in
the vacuous void,
    riddled with deep marine ghosts
pulverising any attempt to make court
with the eye of polyphemus -
     the eye that knows no iris -
   by mere pupil, and a paper-thin
                             rim of sclera,
the death read depth
                        of what's to become
of life.