There's a nail, he's set up camp in my brain. Hammered with daylight, held infuriatingly fast by night. Even the stiffest claw would be of no use, not anymore. His presence would herald slumber, were I of a normal stock. But no. He brings attention to the tick. The tock. If I inch him further, with fervour, maybe he will abdicate, adjacent to his entry. But I know he'll return, pitching by the morn, leaving my rest completely, utterly, torn.