I arise early in the morning, after four hours' sleep, which is never enough for Chanticleer; later, I will sleep off everything again - most likely in the midst of the afternoon. Then my repose enters those vast uncharted realms that every Sleeper fears; I never return as I left, but in turmoil. My subterfuge is literature; prose lends me its hand when times and style perfect their moment of truth. Otherwise, prose envelops with difficulty and lassitude, and I am returned, repeatedly, to the hustle and bustle of everyday life, a state tending towards more and greater nightmares and visitations. As you move through your daylight hours of relative tranquility, you might think of me, fighting with demons, and never a good fight; it takes energy and acumen I no longer have, to keep them all at bay.
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