What am I to do with myself, once the cycling starts? The cogs of my mind speed up. They refuse to stop, and I don’t think I can sleep; I certainly put forth the effort. Dangling my arm off the side of the mattress, switching to fetal position, and back to supine. The ideas keep piling on top of one another. Train wreck. Neuroplasticity  in motion. Energy spikes as my mind chases the currant. That tidal wave of thought darkens with the motions. Cycling. Cycling. Leafing through my options. Worldly decisions and impossible choices. Should I count the flock, hoping it will take me to dreamland? This punishing storm of unrelenting voices.

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