A whisper shall herald the light to come...

I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed. Yet when I go to rest, I usually wake in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, I feel my face, but it has in fact been dry for many years now. Then I look at the window and think: why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain. So I turn over, more confused still, and fumbling about for my dripping sleep, trying to slip it back on. It was that sort of sleep in which you wake every hour and think to yourself that you have not been sleeping at all; you can remember dreams that are like reflections, daytime thinking slightly warped.