Sleep has been the ravening demon dogging my heels all day long and now, now that night has fallen, I can't coax it to me no matter what sweet words I use. A frustrating beast at best, it is playing hide & seek with me.
And I am tired. It's written all over me in the dark circles under my eyes and the dusting of sleepy sandman grit that I can never seem to get rid of. But I can't seem to get to sleep.
Instead, I've got bits of poetry traipsing through my head. Snippets of stories ransacking the attic. Unfinished business knocking around, undaunted.
Why does inspiration only seem to strike when I really don't want it?
I'm going back to bed to try again.