For a broken soul, isn't insomnia like diving into a series of tequila shots? Each shot would reignite the dying embers of the fire inside. Feelings of being left, betrayed, lonely, all embroiled into a single gore mashup, playing in a never-ending loop.

The mind, a carnage of damaged and shattered memories, would run into its own unpredictable course. A raging billowing river, unsure of its destination. And the eyes? They would bleed, either to the heart's content or till the penultimate moment when tears would be born no more, yet scream like a silent berserker.

The ticking hands of the clock would don the role of the vocal tormentor. Each tick, like white hot flames of pain, penetrating and searing the soul. As each hour would come to pass, one would be reminded that there are more to come and the night is still young.

Sleep? Oh sure, it would come. But its arrival would be late, in the hours before dawn. It would sneak in like a terrified army, gingerly arriving after the battlefield has already been ravaged. Carefully, settling in and trying to make its shallow presence announced through weak snore.

And you thought it's great to be an insomniac? Think again!

- Ab's library