The anticipation of that moment when we rest our heads on our pillows, when no-one else is watching, we can curl up or stretch out in that delicious coolness of the sheets and let our worn out legs warm little pockets that spread to our backs and our shoulders…until we are safe in our little cocoons all silvered from the moon streaming in through fog-stained window panes where the stars curiously ponder our waking sleeping state, for they are always awake, never blinking, only twinkling, for our sheer delight on clear sky nights. In the drifting of my senses into the unconscious abysses of my mind, I am enlightened and know peace, the kind of peace that is not fought for, the kind of peace that just is. I am enveloped in peace and all the worries of the day then diminish as though they never really existed and they shuffle themselves away into vaults in my mind, where my dreams will no doubt visit them and bring them out to play…..but for now, I am in bliss and resting in the calmness before the nightmares take their twists and put on turns and displays that will make my rest a haze…and in that moment where I’m contemplating final waking moments and giving up the tension and the stress of all my torments, I’ll be drinking in the daydreams that come before the nightdreams, those little pretty snippets of the bokeh and the princess and the knights in shining armour on their horses all adorned and I am thinking I’m a rose or not, a tree perhaps, a spot upon the garments of the ladies of the courts and all their charmers and no matter what they say or do, I’m relatively harmless. Sinking now, I find myself, deeper in the bed, the weight of tired limbs and head is shifting to my eyes, and sleep is coming over me, despite attempts to rise. I fall my head exhausted on the pillow just behind and wonder if my dreams will tumble out tonight. Fingers still they run across the keyboard typing frantic little messages to send out in my strange dialect. Flitting here and flitting there and fragilely emphatic, I have to tell my fingers to retire into the attic. Let me sleep oh little fingers who desire to type all night, or by the morrow, sorrow sorrow will be your owner’s plight.