I find it odd that I can sleep easily, when I am not supposed to be sleeping, but when I turn off the light and get all my pillows arranged the night visitors come and demand that I stay awake and give them the attention that they feel they deserve. They are demanding, irrational, irritating, insatiable. Their constant questions are unanswerable. Is there solace in Descartes, cognito, ergo sum? More in poetry, than in science, cognito: TS Eliot knew.

Inside my brain a dull tom-toms begins
absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
capricious monotone