I must have had a nightmare. When I woke up this morning, my skin felt sticky and my hair tacky with dried sweat. Made me wonder what my subconscious agonizes over that I don't already beat to death under the sun, when my eyes are open, and even when my eyes are closed but my thoughts whirr onward, refusing to retreat into the refuge of a temporary death.
Well, I guess it's true what they say: No rest for the wicked.
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