My last half year's unwaking hours have been a playground for the damned. Many's the time I have awoken more tired than when I lay down, wrested from one plane of gutwrenching anguish into another. A dozen times my suffering screams have grown loud enough to break their barriers and come aloud into this grim world of really is.
Least comforting is that these Devil's dreams have not been filled with unspeakable monsters or half-twisted fates but with elements of a new mundane, the scary world of aging, raging, loving, and loss. My nights have become my days, translated not transmuted.
How I miss my better days, my better years, my sounder slumber; the night was once a friend, a sanctuary space (where nothing real could touch me).