Pointless . . . pointless and a waste of time (though it is 3 o'clock in the morning) to remain in bed when the energy expended in tossing and turning can be put to better use elsewhere. Better use when I can get my mind out of the gutter and the realms of depression and despair that cater so willingly to the man held captive in his nightly horizontal prison.
I am up, thrusting myself from the uselessness of too much sleep . . . too much nothing.
It's a given there's a force directing me beyond voluntary reflexes. Really, now, do I want to leave the comfort and security of my house and take to the woods at this hour? Why do I even ask? Though an otherwise safe neighborhood mothers and comforts me in her protective embrace, still, there are small but noxious beasts that roam the roads that, during the daylight hours, pose no obvious threats. Nonetheless, I dress by rote and don my cap. Apprehensive, I open the back door.
Drinking in the coolness and dampness of a wafting atmosphere characteristic of these delectable small hours, I instinctively go to my right. That direction takes me to the draw, the irresistible entity that has always been but chooses when and how to be seen, makes its presence felt, lays its terrors upon me . . .
Terror has never been so delicious. . . .