Because nights are filled with illogical desires and foolish needs.. like an unfinished painting sprawled on an insipid canvas of cotton, wandering a nomadic stride of sleepless plight.
Deciding between warm and cool spots, selectively entwined in sheets to cover chilling areas. Oft letting a toe peek out, a lone finger straddling the air outside to discern right temperatures; tossing over everywhere with a pigheaded determination that this would be the last time this sleepless form moves, but like a manufactured art of cubist proportions borne of overused imaginations the body relentlessly seeks daubs of convincing ether that'd readily anaesthetise this helpless bundle of limbs and tears never to settle in a single posture, contorting into shapes maligned looking for a final settlement of a thousand hours of sleepless debt that nights have begun to owe.
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