There is no right way to get comfortable. The sheets are hot and this inherited couch is sinking into the ground under the weight of nights of shifting in my sleep. Indoors, the house is prowled by sudden noises who hunt for bugs, prey on cardboard; silence is freckled with errant breathings. My eyes are quiet. No one has been talking for days. All the old adages add up to nothing. The moon is empty, and I am tired.