Afternoons that were once body clock mornings turned to early mornings which became sweet evening bath time odes to rest; theyβre tests we all win at because the prize is quietness, primary-school-hands-on-heads quietness, so still it hurts to sleep because comfort has wrapped every bone in ill fitting armour making it, once moved, difficult to find that point of paralysis once again.
Piano-flat black rooms are lit by dark midnight suns, the bulbs burning through, the taps in their place, chairs thrown under tables away from the morning queue yet to form for the day.