I drift off to sleep, the exhaustion from the day weighing me down. But even when the expanse of darkness starts to settle around me as if it were an old comfort blanket of mine, my mind can't seem to switch off. The familiar itch seems to pull in incomprehensible ideas of heroines rescuing the hero, the creatures under my bed being friendlier than my next door neighbour or falling into an unknown society of supernatural beings fighting for their equality. These ideas swirl around me like a film before another idea interrupts and the scene changes. I wake up to find the familiar itch still lurking under my skin. Then as I sit down to write what is churning in my head there seems to be nothing pouring out onto the page; instead it sits there as an empty page of what could have been.