Creativity is great, but plagiarism is faster

Sleep, come find me tonight. Thread your soporific roots through my pores and send your fibrous tap down my throat. Before, you came upon me, unexpectedly, shimmering faintly in the dark, dusty haze above my cloaked eyes. You were a welcome guest, but always arrived late in accordance with the fashion of the occasion. At times, I was up half the night in anticipation, but I never called; I knew—somehow—you would arrive. And my patience was rewarded with the fleeting sound of your footfall on the doorstep, before the scene dissolved to morning light and the sound of coffee steeping in the kitchen—banishing the musty scent of night.

Your timing is unpredictable, but your consistency is steadier than the snores sputtering from the bed opposite the one in which I now recline. I deconstruct the comings and goings of the day, the musings and broodings. What was it the flustered Korean woman yelled, in broken English, to the motorcycle cop? This continues on for what seems like hours, and while I strain my ears for any note of you, all I hear is the old Air Conditioning unit whirring a simple harmony to the night’s chorus. It mocks my plight; I control its fate; the sound whimpers and dies as I resume my place in sheets rife with anxiety.

Invade my senses. Inhabit my body. Pervade my soul.

I never called on you before; I knew—somehow, I always knew—you would arrive. I never called on you before tonight. But here I am, clutching at the tattered corners of the sheets, gnawing on the silence of insomnia. The scene is set—the final act begun. You control the curtain.