You turn over, put the pillow over your head, and try to sleep some more.

Of course you can't, but you've got some inertia going here, getting up would tear all the work you've put in not moving the last, oh, 37 minutes. But now the arm under you is fast asleep and even though a part of you hopes the rest of your body will follow, the pain tells you otherwise.

Maybe you should just drink that bottle of NyQuil... it'll probably get the job done, at worst it should knock you out for longer than you planned, but so long as you're on your stomach that shouldn't be too bad. But no, that's not what you fear; no, you're afraid it won't do that, it won't do anything. Because when it's all said and done, this isn't the first time night's turned antagonizing. No, this has been going on for as long as you can remember: hours divided by the change in the Late Show host's voice spilling from the adjacent room. This is far from new, far from tolerable, and nothing short of maddening. It wasn't so much the nothingness of laying in the dark, thoughts turning to days prior, reliving events in the clarity only blackness carries. It isn't the sobering cold when the lights scream on, or the emptiness that echoes as you walk aimlessly. No, it's the uselessness of it; the inescapable sense of not having control over your own body.

It's almost enough to turn you mad.