“You ever have those nights you can’t sleep?” he asked. “Maybe you fall asleep early, then can’t get back; or there’s something on your mind; or something in your soul that won’t give you rest?”
He didn’t expect an answer, but he spoke it still as if someone there would hear, spirit in a sleepless night.
He finished the coffee of morning’s make, cool and flat; and there were times he liked it as such, not always needing fresh and new and warm, but appreciating what was there; no longer bitter but salve and somewhat soothe to sleeplessness when there.
He opened a book, entered its story; then followed with another: changing worlds, changing minds, until his own—and sleep—returned in call.