WAKEFULNESS.

Fiction O'Clock

Last night was another of those nights where sleep eluded me. It stood in a corner of the room and mocked me; mocked me for lying awake and restless as the seconds passed by.

It is a slow night, with every minute feeling like a long, leisurely hour. My head is muddled with thoughts – thoughts that echo of  insignificance and vagueness. As such, it is hard to ignore that finger pointing at me – the one accusing me of having given in to wakefulness. It is 0221 hours but the clock never stops ticking. Its voice – the sound made by its moving hands – crowds my head, disturbs my peace. (Its funny, yet wonderful, how every little sound gets to you enormously in the dead of the night.) The mosquitoes, however, never cease to sing their lullaby … little do they know that I have murder on my mind.

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