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May 13, 2007
I lie awake and fret at vague clouds. Things are good: in many ways the best theyíve ever been, but here I am, awake for the eighth time tonight, too hot, too cold, one leg dangling outside the covers. I look at the face in the ceiling where the rain came in. As a child it would have terrified me and fed further nightmares; now itís just a hook to hang my insomnia on. I try to let its black eye hypnotise me into another hourís sleep. You snore softly. I kiss your back. You make a troubled, ambiguous sound.