It's 11:11.

I am so tired but I don't want to sleep,
because sleep is the cousin of death and if
I get a taste of that I might break all of the promises
I ever made and swallow every single
goddamn pill in this house.

There's a bed upstairs waiting for me,
but I don't need to sleep.
The moments before are too long
and heavy where they stand.

God. I am not insane. I am not insane.
Barely human, perhaps.
The city was ripped from me and
without it I'm nothing.
Nothing.

But I am not insane.