Nausea/Fever. I used to enjoy sleep.

I used to enjoy sleep, now i am hiding from it. Not under the layers of the feathers as i used to, when i feared real monsters, but under the pseudonym of an insomniac. And there, or rather, here, i take my refuge.

The creativity starts at midnight, when my eyesight starts to blur and the things i ramble more resembled the scribbles of a young Nicole Diver. ("I've thought a lot about moonlight too". Lunar. Lunacy. Finally onto something.) Perhaps the inhibitions are lost. Perhaps i should test the polyphasic sleep patterns someone once told me to try. No need to alter the mind, merely the surroundings greeting it. The fact that the world was still each time when he awoke meant minimal distraction from the task at hand; the abstraction. Or rather, the liberation from the constraints of conscious thoughts and speech. They don't mind if you talk to yourself, just as long as they don't hear it. But that, more strictly, and more generally speaking, is a terrible starting point. Muttering through tainted lips; 'As long as they are blind, it will not hurt them.' 

I fear that i have rather proved my point. Through my wearied eyes this seems to be just a creative splurge. Through the newly bleared eyes of the morning it will seem diluted. 

"I've thought a lot about moonlight too".