Around that time, writing left me. Every night I tried, sat there with bloodshot eyes waiting for the morning, me and the empty paper. Mornings were unbearable in a way. The brightness was too blinding. The paper would still be empty. And the fucking birds would start chirping. That still annoys me. Birds chirping early in the morning. You are lucky if you can go to sleep when it is still night. Once it is morning, sleep comes almost shamefully, like a rape victim. Mornings came with cottonmouth and hunger and futility and the fucking chirping of the fucking birds. I would just smother my head with the pillow and make it as dark as I could. And every morning, as I drifted to sleep, I would think about those bands they use to cover their eyes while sleeping. Sleeping masks. That's what they're called. Sleeping masks. Every morning, I would think about sleeping masks.