He could not get to sleep.  He could not stay asleep.

They were erupting in him now like lava.  Ideas, thoughts, impulses.

In poetry, prose, myths and stories.  How to… how to take this feral energy into himself.  To merge and fuse with it.

No, how to leave it pulsing awake.  To hear it like a pilgrim’s prayer and cast it out like daimon nets.  Not the things going inside of consequence but the things coming out of his heart.

Like water falling off a log.  Like steam from a kettle.  Grass dewing.  Water rising.