5 a.m. two months ago

In this mad hour I am awake. The hour isn't defined because I can't work up the energy to roll over and check the clock. My eyes are intent on counting the spots on my wall every three inches up and left and this game lasts what I feel to be an hour until I hear the birds chirping and crows cackling and train yawning with me. The birds sound as though they are laughing outside my window, reminding me that this is quite a serious problem with no solution in sight, a problem no longer worth investigating. There is no end to any dreams for it is too loud to ever be awaken from, the forms too vivid to distinguish themselves from real life, and the visions too riveting to not pay attention so that when my eyes open from whatever painting my mind has created in place of restful dreaming they feel just as helplessly tired as they did when they reached ten thousand dots on the wall. The songs, they are too loud in my sleep that it never feels like I went to bed at all.