Here in my makeshift home beneath twinkling orbs I rest.
I lie among the quiet, nestled in cold.
Sleep eludes me, but thoughts race rapidly.
Tightly I wrap in cloth attempting to squeeze out the world.
Never does it work.
It's not meant to be kept at bay.
Accepting the state of wakefulness, I reach for pen and paper.
My pill... my dose of chill.
Transferring thoughts, phrases, words; I write.
Clearing the cache.
Eyelids grow heavy as my pen fills each line.
Works everytime.
Surrounded by moonlight, quiet takes me away.
Sleep finds me at peace.
Dreaming of wishes and memories, storing fuel for the morning light.
Quiet still is the night.
Writing cures what ails me.

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