What Dreams Can Come On a Sleepless Night

The tick of the clock speaks to me of silence that seems all the more cacophonous for the stillness.
The air sits heavy in the room and against my skin. Pushing me down toward unconsciousness.
I struggle to remain aware, for the stillness is the indrawn breath that the audience holds before the show.
Though the clock only speaks of silence, the show must be proportionately more exquisite for the anticipation.