Storm rolls in

One AM and thirty degrees Celsius.  I’m waiting.  I know I won’t sleep till it gets down to twenty-eight.  The storm is rolling in with fierce gusts, wild and menacing like sleep.  Maybe I don’t want to sleep. 

No, of course I want to sleep.  I hate the dryness of insomnia, and of waking dreamless.  I just want to do it without losing control.  Now there’s a familiar motif, isn’t it?  There was a time when I enjoyed challenging such fears. 

Now, nothing tickles my imagination. 

Perhaps what I’m most afraid of is boredom.