I can't sleep. I thought I'd just launch the problem into a big, big space and consider it swallowed, taken away by...well, the big, big space.

Maddeningly enough, sleeping is not a problem of closing one's eyes. Of course, that's nothing new or revelatory; in fact, it may be infuriatingly vapid that I will be provoked to close my eyes and sleep.

No, sleeping is a matter of drifting into the unconscious. Which is quite a daunting journey, to be honest. If being conscious is anything like looking at oneself in the wee hours of the morning having just woken up, being uncoscious is nothing short of catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, naked, in the middle of your period. Disillutioning.

I have spurned the company of the ever pleasant-smelling coffee and settled for warm milk (the mug is the same, so it's not much of a perfidy), restricted my manuscript to Archie comics, shunned the insistent urge to get my hands on the Sims because of the voice in my head that insists I haven't laid enough eggs of worth, and my sleep, for all I know, is busy flirting with others.

Does that famous sandman still come and visit? No, will not think, will not fantasise, will not obsess, will not worry.

Will sit and entice sleep.