Sleep refuses; not even dreams, just the rhythmic click somewhere in the room. My radio refuses to produce Inner Sanctum or The Shadow - nothing but static. Something about the bed, cold and dead under me. Instead, the spirit operates my fingertips and I write. Restless and alien, I am driven by those stories in my head again; I can feel them palpitate in my ribcage like a butterfly giving birth to a king.
When one feels at odds with the universe, wear a hoodie, with the hood drawn. Especially drag at the hood until it ducks down past the eyes. Mystery is maximized, and everybody knows that dark thoughts are had. Construct origami warnings of doom, and then float them down a river.