Vowing to wake up early every day from last-week-forward.  Assuming, that waking up early could also be another way of stating the return of insomnia.
Awake, stealing expensive toiletries, making sure to exfoliate.  The mice will keep company as Fitzgerald gleams the romanticized French Riviera, mockingly. 
The plot line of my sad evening.


He beams murder victim as the perpetrator holds him down gently and begs,
C L O S E  Y O U R  E Y E S.
Hitchcock's created a headache.


He's persistent and persists to hyperventilate, overreact, dehumanize, over-analyze.
Tense as a taut balloon, suffocating with helium, 
all his body's blood's in his cheeks.


We're screaming. The resonance of the collective WE.
We're toast. He sleeps to the soft hum of a dehumidifier,
exhausted from the fight he fight with himself, alone.
He's got too much to hide, 
& I can't seem to find, him, anymore.


liberated, soon enough, none-the-less
but still, I've yet to learn to sleep 
with or without, the mice.