How all things do conspire against the sleepless! The plumbing writhes and belches, the floors pitch like ships’ decks, the walls groan and heave, birds throw their tiny bodies against the windows, screaming. It’s as if you’ve been invited to inhabit a painting by Van Gogh. Bedbugs suddenly come to life, industriously scuttling about, combing every inch of your sullen flesh, gathering sloughed skin cells or whatever it is that bedbugs gather. The huge, suffocating silence that sits on your chest, its claws dug into your tufty hair, mocks your inability to lose consciousness. Finally the bed, which has transformed itself into the surface of the moon, with tiny stiff American flags and abandoned lunar rovers digging into your ribs, becomes intolerable and you drag yourself, sluglike, into another room, where you blearily type out a blog entry whose addled, sleep-deprived syntax you will dread to read in the morning.