covers raze it never fails. you wash the sheets. you make your bed. you lie in it. and within a week, the comforter and the thin beige blanket beneath it are in a heap on the floor. you sleep alone but for the ghosts of dead friends haunting the edges of your dimming vision. you don't toss and turn the way you did as a younger man. you slide onto your left side, curl into the shape you took when you were drowning in amniotic fluid, and wait for the slow encroachment of whatever dreams the night sees fit to give you. the thrashing you do now is limited to split-second pockets of panic after_midnight that have you kicking against the loss of consciousness in an effort to convince yourself you aren't about to die. you can't explain why every cotton fortress you construct is cursed. "i think you're fighting," your father says. "i think you're fighting all the bullshit in your life while you sleep." maybe he's right. but that's a fight you can't win even with your eyes open. 230616 what's it to you? who go blather from