I hate not being able to sleep. What I hate most is not being able to sleep b/c I'm sick. The insomnia bogey comes in and sets himself on my shoulder, bugger that he is. Makes himself right at home and says to me "What shall we do tonight, my dear? How shall I entertain you?"
I can't help but think that he's a dodgy bastard and really just want him to go away so that I can close my eyes.
"I know!" the little cretin exclaims. "Why don't we start with a story...not just any story, mind you. Something simple, not quite esoteric. Why don't we see what's in your insides, luv. I've been hearing an insistent knocking in your brain, it needs getting out, you see. So...let's have a look, shall we?"
And before I know it, I'm up in my office, ink-stained fingers, torch in hand, writing this:
He sat on my bedpost, staring at me with those marble black beads that could be eyes.
I had woken up from a dead sleep to find him there.
"What the devil do you want?" I asked, a bit cross at seeing him in my bedroom, just as cozy as you please.
"You know what I want," he murmurs in the lulling monotone that I've come to love and hate alternately.
"Now now, mind the language, mah duck." He stuck out a grubby, crooked hand. "Won't do no good to dodge. They'll only send another."
With a resigned sigh, I stuck my finger through the hole in my chest, turned once
It popped open with a barely audible click and I opened the creaky little door, letting the contents ooze into his crippled appendage; the seeping darknes made me feel lighter already.
He examined it with a haughty sniff. "My my, we have been busy, haven't we?"
"What do you care?" I spat, annoyed with the judgement of a demon of souls, a thief of hearts.
"Not a bit, mah love, not a bit."
His arms then twitched and writhed, toenails and hair shed; he flew through the open window of my tiny West End flat, soaring into the humid miasma of summer that hung over the city like toxic ether.
**"What price salvation now?" the remnants of his voice echoes sibilantly in my sleep-fogged mind.
Funny...I never felt that I was saved
For he always returns
The price remains the same.
**A bit of a nod there, to Sir George Bernard Shaw and his redoubtable Major Barbara.