Sleep. . . . rawr.

I can't sleep. The last time I was in the laspe of reality they call sleep was twenty-four hours ago. And i still can't sleep. What's up with my stomache? I feel it hard. It's hungry. Maybe. Or maybe sleepy. Can stomaches be sleepy? Nobody's awake to answer that. Whatev', It's a stupid question anyways. It would be fair to say that my sleeping patterns lately have been erratic. I don't know what that word means, but I have heard it used in this context before, so I assume it to be correct. I could google the definition, but google.com seems so far away right now. I'm too tired to seek it. I have not been alone. My faithful friend and long time aquantince, Chipper, has dwelt in the rhelm of open-eyed-ness long enough to be considered as tired as I. On this winter night, we have fought long and hard to fall asleep, but as each horizon of victory approches near, we are boomeranged back into that shameful waked-ness. I have overcome my discomfort and self-resentment over not being able to (as a common man would say) "Fall Asleep." I have remembered that there are always battles lost, but one must not give up. One must get back up on ones feet when placed upon the ground by unruly means. One must trip and fall and trip and fall and finally learn and look and tie ones shoelaces before making the mistake of triping once more.
Therefore, there shall be a time for me to sleep. This time may not me now, but it may be now. I hope it is. I'm tired. My stomache is tired. Sleep! Come and wrestle me into your chambers. Duct-tape my mouth shut and tie me to a chair. Entice me and envellop me and in the end, after I have given you what you have sought, set me free.