I've got that late night ache. My joints groan quietly, grinding against each other, pressing themselves to the muscle walls in protest. My eyes squint at faint light, hoping for darkness that isn't coming. The air is too cold- chilled even beneath the blankets. My fingers keep on typing endless words. Page after page of nonsense bleeds out on the screen, going on with repetition and the clattering of the keys. I close my eyes, daydreaming about falling into a moment of not thinking, not angrily judging the hours of my day, of the month, of the life I'm living. Music plays, not that my ears are really listening to the guitar that urges me to sleep when I've got so much to do. The house is waiting for me to fall under so it too can sleep. A house only sleeps when everyone else does. The darkness of the rooms doesn't matter, if I lie awake, the house is watching over me, even after the nightlights are blown out. It watches my eyes water and me rub my back in anguish. It watches hold the cup to my lips and hope for water, and it sighs at my breath of defeat as only a trickle comes to greet my mouth. And it shakes it's head when I decide I'd rather face thirst than leave the nest and travel to the kitchen for water. My fingers are ice, but the corners of myself are warm enough, like the back of my knee, or the hollow of my neck pressed against my shoulder. Even my hair hurts, it's folded the wrong way across my pillow and I can't give up on holding out in the pain. What fresh hell lives in the no-mans-land between consciousness and dreamland. Come now, sleep, I beg of you, just for a little while, and then I'll forget we forgave eachother and we can continue this silly fight.