at 4 am with the wide awake horror of the sleep deprived. Loneliness. When nothing would be better than waking the beloved and seeking comfort, curled and snuggled like a marsupial crawling to the breast. But there is nothing but the comfort of a blanket and an unmarked lined page, soft as skin. Perfect to make words on. But the words and sleep are in collusion. I am left alone with eleven kinds of loneliness and the bitter dark.