Not to sleep, not to dream, no more demons to believe.
It’s difficult to keep awake. The hour has not struck eight and I already fight sweet temptations of the sleep that surely would last hours without end: lost in the endless, visionless dreams that soon shall become forgotten in the morning. But there is some light in the horizon that calms my fear. Quietly the days flow along with the shadow of failure trailing behind with a mighty thunder and drizzles of doubts. Oh, my pride how easily you lust the flame! (How you lust after fame!) Engulfed in the hunger of the word and so quickly you abandoned the wits to the wind, to the stars. But the ashes soon will litter in the little garden. In the little corner of solace, of solitude we make our bed of white lies night after night only to return again dressed in sparkles of false delights. Ah, but we will prosper in another place, another way. But I cannot succumb to slumber just yet: I have thoughts to harvest and demons to destroy. The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma, truly.