I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.
The things that keep me awake at night are things like textures and instrumentation and plotting out what things are going to do and what the sounds are that I'm trying to capture.
I was never going to get any sleep. I was going to have Alice in Wonderland conversation after Alice in Wonderland conversation until I died of exhaustion. Here, in the restful, idyllic Victorian era.
I just can't wake from these scary dreams.
I can't sleep. Too many thoughts running through my useless head.
Of course I have nightmares-Who doesn't?
I can sleep ANYWHERE! I just love to sleep.
Sleep is no longer a healing bath, a recuperation of vital forces, but an oblivion, a nightly brush with annihilation.
When you get a typical injury, you're given a time frame; you're gradually working towards getting back. With concussions, there is not generally a time frame or a span where you're feeling better. You feel like you're getting better, and it can be one day and you're back to where you started.
As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
Sleep is no mean art.
I'm a terrible sleeper. I get obsessive, repetitive thoughts and it's horrible.
Sleep is harder to reach and thinner, and sleeping is no longer the Drop into the black pit all oblivion until the alarm clock, no, sleep is thin and fitful and full of memories and reminders and the dark is never dark enough.
If he can't sleep, how will he ever dream?
Night has brought to those who sleep, only dreams they can not keep.
Those no-sooner-have-I-touched-the-pillow people are past my comprehension. There is something bovine about them.
I like to sleep so much that I wake up exhausted from sleeping so hard.
I have a brother who is afraid to go to sleep, he dreams he's working.
I had six or seven documented concussions, so I had a lot more than that. But I feel fine.
The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to.
O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
If you don't get a goodnight kiss, you get Kafka dreams.
We term sleep a death by which we may be literally said to die daily; in fine, so like death, I dare not trust it without my prayers.
Just as ecstasy purifies you of the particular and the contingent, leaving nothing except light and darkness, so insomnia kills off the multiplicity and diversity of the world, leaving you prey to your private obsessions.
Laughing, how can you fall asleep? It brings a state of no-mind and no-thought, and does not allow you to fall asleep.
