"Insomnia" by WriterAEF
"2AM and all is well!", I think to myself in a British accent, smiling despite the fact that I'm staring at the whirling blades of my spinning ceiling fan, watching them make shadow patterns across our wicker closet doors.
Frowning, I scratch my disheveled mop and ponder whether or not a town crier would have had a British accent. "It was a tradition from the UK, right?" I ponder silently. "Or was it something done in Colonial America? Am I mixing up my history?" My addled mind can not remember, especially at this hour.
After useless minutes of contemplating whether or not I should google the matter, I realize the fruitlessness of my curiosity. The recesses of my mind don't need to make sense like my cursed manuscript does. I can be as inaccurate as I like in my own mental follies.
Sighing, I turn on my side and abuse my pillow and blanket, trying to find sleep within their lame embrace.
"2:30AM and all is"...oh, hell.
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Time is PreciousGeneral Fiction
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