Counting Tiles I count ceiling tiles, waiting for ribbons of exhaustion to gather into a veil of sleep. I haven't slept in four, maybe five, nights. I expected an undoing, but I hadn't anticipated the fear. When sleep becomes a stranger, nothing is innocuous. A bird song becomes the moaning wail of a grieving mourner. The sounds of children playing echo the torturous taunts of bullies. The telephone is an air raid siren, and the doorbell a falling bomb.Counting Tiles by ujjjezebel
Mother is at the door asking why I haven't returned her calls. She's been worried. Have I stopped sleeping again? Is it that girlfriend? When am I going to realize that I am better off without her and move on? When am I going to get myself a better job and move to a nicer apartment?