Insomnia

Outside a sprinkler spins 'round. Psh-Psh-Psh; che-che-che; Psh-Psh-Psh-Psh. A horn goes off to the cool air blowing through my window. But I'm still awake. It's One O'clock in the morning, I am tired as hell and have nothing left to do. The wind rustles the leaved trees, reminding me of the abscence of the call to sleep. My eyes heavy, my body weak, yet no desire do I have to sleep. Instead of black, the sky is a navy blue, the trees mere silhouettes of flashing elephants and haunted screams running across the backdrop of city light.

Although they seemlessly blend with night's deceptive blue, I know the mountains are out there. In several hours the sun will rise and so will the peaks, 'lest their presence is given away prematurely by the setting of the moon.

An empty street, lit by emptier streetlight. The wind still blows, murkying the impure, pale, streetlight. This is meaningless and I should sleep.
But sleep comes not and trying to only pushes it further from me.

If only there were a reason, if only this insomnia logical. But look, I sit here, alone, mind wandering from the depth of the early morning sky to the smell of quickly dispersing candle smoke, and now, the hum of a computer's fan - which has abruptly died.

I sit here just marveling at the way the lamp light is casted across my hand onto the page. Marveling at my half-reflection in the glass atop a comic that long ago lost all humour.