sleepless ravings

How many nights, how many hours have I spent sitting in bed watching smoke swirl and mingle over the lamp, rising from the incense on the table, the pipe in my hand? How many pages have I filled with bored, illegible scribbles? How long have I spent staring blankly at books I don't want to read, clothes I don't want to put away? By three am I intensely dislike everything around me.

When you can't sleep, it's always three am.

Some nights I lie in bed with the lights off, singing long, slow songs in my head. Every so often I'll stop to guess the time. I'm usually right.

Mr. Durden has already explained to us how insomnia makes everything a copy of a copy of a copy. And while I do agree with him, I wish to emphasize the "everything" part. As the night wears on you go from one tired copy of yourself to the next: a copy of a copy of a copy.