As a child I thought sleep was glorious. I still think so. One would think certain habits like hitting the sack at a regular time or waking up by break of dawn would pall with passage of time. No. Man goes to sleep like a beggar with his worn out nerves and thoughts soiled by activities of the day. Even a saint is somewhat dented by it. I go to bed poor but wake up rich, feeling a power that I never thought possible. Every time. Over a cup of coffee when I have the whole world all to myself I command it to silence. My power is such even a cock crowing from a barn nearby cannot annoy me. With all that power at my command what I do? Like a beggar I polish my ivories that are ready to drop off, clear the nasal passages that are chokeful of phlegm and drag about my bones almost breaking apart,-osteoporosis sounds solid uh?don’t you believe it!, and make water. Indignities heaped over me by day do not end there. I am an unmitigated fool to attend to great many silliness of not my making. Come day my age shows its unseemly, sordid side. Only company of people, those who make much of me can make me survive till I once again go to bed. Asleep I do not need the world or its uses. Even the one who warms the cockles of my heart is left out. Sleep, it is too potent to be shared with anyone.
Sleep is where I come to my proper estate. The whole universe and even God, host of angels belong to me, me alone. With such company who can tell me I am a nobody?