On Thursday night I had significantly more trouble falling asleep than usual. By this I mean that I thrashed and writhed like a cursed lizard for about two hours, because no matter which pieces of my body or brain were touching the sheets nothing was comfortable, acceptable, bearable. I concluded that I had fleas, I concluded that perhaps I should just stop moving and wait because could there have been a roomful of premonitions waiting behind the darkness, I concluded that I shouldn’t have had half a cup of coffee in the afternoon, I concluded that I must give up, I concluded everything under the sun, and I concluded that my sleepless state was the responsibility of the full, gleaming moon.