ode to sleep

And slowly I begin to smell of exhaustion, a bittersweet acrid odour redolent of sweat and dried coffee. The curls are damp on my head, soft hints of feather pillows. Then the bleary, burning eyes seem as much a part of me as the aching head, and there’s a tightness across the back of my spine like stretched rubber. My head is a weary mass of thoughts that jumble together in little clumps and snarls and then poetically unravel themselves into sweet ideas that slip away in airy swirls. Every movement is adagio, and the achey strains of Nick Drake and Fiona Apple woo me until I can see my bed again.