Sleep tickles the edges of my mind. Clouding my head like miniscule cobwebs. Dusty. Stuffy. Cloying. My lungs seem not to be able to take in the proper amount of air. I feel stifled. My limbs are heavy. Moving is arduous. Yet my muscles jitter faintly. Never letting me forget they are there. Limp yet restless.

Yet for all that, my head refuses to quiet and give in to the lull of darkness, of the soft pillow and warm blankets.

I am reluctant to turn of the bedside lamp. Reluctant to succumb to sleep. And dreams. Never remembered, but tickling the edges of consciousness. Haunting vagueries. Remnants of an overactive brain. The faint memories of those dreams are more stifling than my sodden lungs.