Dream a Little Dream
I succumb to the pains, to the vice that holds us all in its grip. Sleep; the universal addiction. A release from the burden of thinking my own thoughts, and the purgatory of other people. Eyes shut, with now awareness of breath or pulse. Every night we prepare for death in this way, But with all escapes from that which plages us, This one comes with a price. Horrible visions. A lover with serpentine eyes... and such hunger. Demons Plage me in both worlds. Every fix but the last one is sadly temporary. Sleep is waking's retreat and waking sleep's. All I, all we, can hope to do is find a half way point. A way to blur the line between the two worlds.
Double nod. Perhaps I wasn't asleep after all. To the passing observer it was probably have been an adequate simulation, But it is to late for me to tell.
As far as I know, the moment, if there was one, has passed. Alcohol, if taken in the correct quantities over a confined period of time can create a counterfeit sleep. The largest benefit to this is the a dream like state of being. Why wouldn't someone just sleep? The soul can grow weary of slumber. Every night we fall into torpor, we have no choice in the matter. We can fend it off for a time, but sooner or later it will engulf us all. Over and over again. It has been said that no one has ever died from lack of sleep. Perhaps it is sleep that finally deadens us. Living is like holding your breath: eventually you will turn color and serenader.
My thoughts turn to a melody. Women and glasses of beer. How would Poe have seen the cowboys.