The night was unusually hot. She was sweaty but she didn't dirty the ruffled pillows underneath her head. She had dirtied everything else that she could as she slept on and on. The dust from her skin was quite dirtying things nowhere near her, somewhere else, something else, and certainly not anywhere on her person. For she wasn't a person at that moment, just not yet anyway.

No, no, no. She wasn't the cause or the culprit, just or otherwise. She refused to be a cure. She didn't impel any reasons. So she wouldn't cushion any blows. Sometimes, she'd do a lot of blow, and blow stuff up or just blow people. She was an addict, addicted to things she couldn't possibly describe. Or tell apart.

But she wasn't a compulsion nor was she compulsory. She was. She was a cornucopia of sounds lost in places history forgot. She was in those books the writers no longer wanted to write. What's funny is, she is older than any recorded history, Sumerian or more recent less accurate one, but she's already been written about. She certainly wasn't a curse but she was most definitely cursed. She was simply curious. Since she had already killed her cat called Curiosity, she was even more curious. She was curious. She was so curious about herself. And there was no one here to wake her up from her sleep.

So no. No, no, no. The pillows under her head were stuffed with the helplessness of the day, all that swollen hope, and the possibilities of the night. All the goodness of the good nightmares. Restless, she murmured, turning in her sleep. Her pillows were stained from her bad dreams. Spindly and liquidy, they tumbled, rolling off the soft, fluffed bump. An absence of dull dreams gleamed on the pillows. The surface of the pillowcases drenched in the sheen of the words written in different places. From other inky places. For she wanted different things now. One of the things she wanted was her own sleep, dusty from the particles that were glowing in her dirt, taking root. But of course, at the peak of shadows, she would abandon everything and leave. Leave it all behind, and leave everyone else that hadn't already left. Leave. Leaf. Lief.

She had already left somewhere for nowhere.

But she wasn't leaving her sleep ever. Little else, she could do other than finally accept the final moon here.