Sleep: If there is life again within this stone enclosure soon we will find out, until that comes we die a daily death.

And yet it is such a refreshment, this peculiar, restful, though we wake as needing even more of it and never have enough.

So life is horrified by this sleep we long for. I am tired, yet afraid to rest.

To let the limbs lie limp in flannel sheets, new and unexpected head sunk down into the pillows.

O, and that pain would cease at last. Let restful slumber come now, eyes down.

Furious, steam presses up, blood waits for life to call it on to death, where I will float, arms outstretched again, or at my sides, In endless glaring white quiet essence.

No horses trotting there, but waves, they gently spill their foam up on the shore.