Sleep glazed with confusion wends its way in. Peacefulness wandered off with innocence long ago, profoundly interred among rhymes written in chalk and collections of purple dresses. We make peace with demons. We break bread with weariness and find a kind of solace. War breaks out across oceans and sends poison along broad bands of static thoughts, and yet we sleep. We sleep with wormwood delirium hopes. We nightmare on the moon's inquisition. Moonlight becomes our lover. To sleep without knowledge is a bliss we will never know again. To sleep.