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Sleep.

What I thought had settled down has stirred up again, and all I want is sleep. Yet I keep myself awake, chasing perfection in a work I've been assigned. Hours have passed with me hunched over, inhaling food when reminded, my eyes straining, and glasses leaving faint, pink indents on my nose. 

Now I lie against the bed, half my face pressed into the pillow, one leg hooked upwards while the other rests straight. My hands curl like dinosaur claws around my phone as I type this out. Adele's singing about finding someone like you, but I can't seem to care about love right now. This is as casual as I'll get. 

In sleepy bouts, I let myself be tired, and my mouth loosens. Don’t wake me up and ask me something—I’ll start talking about something entirely different from what you asked. I might even make you a cup of tea. Or I'll fight to the death to ensure I get my sleep.

Right now, sleep feels like the only thing keeping me together. If there was no transitional rest phase before tomorrow arrives, it would be dreadful. With no place for my mind to drift to, no space for my body to lay, I couldn't. Perhaps that's why lack of sleep show up so visibly in humans. 

Bags for the eyes to carry. Hallucinations for the eyes to see. Isn't that enough accessories to be sporting to class tomorrow? Maybe I will throw on some regret and relief. But for now, I will let sleep claim me. Now, I rest, I forget. 




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