The Master of Sleep
looks like sleeping is the last thing she will do;
that’s a hard mattress, maybe harder than a floor,
and that pillow is a lump iterated so many times that there’s definitely
no pillow, just enough of a shape that you can differentiate what it might be,
if it wasn’t Lumpland, Dominion of Lumposity, where no back or shoulder will awaken unachened!”
And yet, the Master of Sleep snores still.
Soon enough, we’ll march a youbig brass band through; not just any big brass band, the biggest, the brassiest, the most bandied-about-band in all the known World;
and yet, the Master of sleep sleeps on.
Behold! Here are a stack of alarm clocks, each more startling than the last, and would you look at the time? They’re about to blow! And yet…
onwards, onwards, endless, the Doze.
She might be late. She might have an important job. What if she’s dreaming things about YOU and you JUST HAVE TO KNOW?
It doesn’t matter.
So gently, so ardently does she snore, so careless does she trip away her very close and personal time with Morpheous that you cannot begrudge her. And why go around begrudging things, anyway? Interferes with your sleep, and if sleep isn’t pleasure, what is?
If sleep isn’t pleasure, what is?
If sleep isn’t pleasure, it might just be time to find a better class of nightmare with whom to spend your unconscious times. She did. And now she’s here.
If logs could sleep, she’d be sleeping just like one right now.
Spend a few minutes with her, and even the most jealous insomniac goes home,
winds down,
and unbuckles
where the snores are.
