She would lie awake at night. Midnight. One o'clock. Two. It wasn't insomnia per se. She could sleep if she could just get her brain to shut up. Some nights, it would. Quiet. Thoughtless. Other nights, the thoughts were rampant. Loud tenants, up at all hours, banging doors and talking to each other. Something funny, a raucous round of laughter and then it's forgotten. A profound statement, contemplation, also forgotten. It wasn't insomnia. it was an affliction of thought.

There would be ideas, musings. There would be things she would write down, if only they would come to her when she wanted them to, when she wasn't trying to sleep. A refusal to turn on the light and write them that moment meant they were lost for good. And often that's how it played out. After all, she was trying to sleep. She had to be up for work in four hours. Turning on the light, writing--that kept her from sleep. Precious sleep, rife with dreams she rarely remembered and nightmares she'd gladly forget.

The profundity wasn't commonplace. Anything worthy of pen and paper and the handcramp from her carpal tunnel was limited. A sentence here, a character there. A catchphrase that a hero could say, if only she had a plot for that hero to take on.

More often than not it was fragments or bizarre fantasies too embarrassing to put down for fear readers would realize it wasn't fiction. All she could do was let them pass through and hope the clown car would be empty soon enough, procession of floppy-shod, red-nosed, rainbow-wigged thoughts, finally at its end. Because forgotten dreams were better than forgotten thoughts. There was no denied opportunity to write the dreams. No lost chances. no refusal to have a numb hand from writing. There were no controls for dreams.

But if only she could sleep.