There are nights where the pleasure of sleep eludes me so. I give up on trying to capture it, and I let it come to me voluntarily. I see unread books on my desk. Unread books that promise me adventures of suspense and woe within every page. I can feel the darkness creep up over my shoulder. I should be frightened like a little child that has a phobia or clowns, spiders, or etc. But I know this feeling all too well that I invite the darkness to sit with me and accompany me. We have short, simple conversations. Till the pleasure of sleep finally gives me the privillage of embracing it and I fall into a deep slumber. Only to wake up the next day and start this cycle all over again.