Where was it I wondered.
Dew eyed from yawns incomplete, ones that faltered as they neared a sleepy end. Muffled under layers thick, cocooned in comforts soft that broke every few seconds to reposition and shift in hopes I'd find a sleepy place.
A utopia for dreamless sleep, that'd admit a harmless noble nocturnal.
Why do then thoughts gallop at lightening pace, into places unknown, reaches obfuscated by daylights and jaded activities; Into narrow corners and dwellings that come to life only whence sleep betrays at times most needed.
Shadows chipping into miasmic flakes that float away like burnt pieces of ragged newspapers, uncovering hidden stream of lights and stars.
Memories resurfacing like oil slicked sludge on oceans, some ruminations from day left unfinished that see a coruscating end to their reflections, pondering theories that hit a spark plug.
Where then is it still? Sleep?
Under covers, behind eyelids, inside a pillow or perhaps under small paws of a kneading cat.
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