Sleep. The fifth dimension. The one that doesn�t exist. At least not for me, not right now, not the way it should. Presently I am awake, noticing the time dragging by (did I mention that it can also fly, crafty little bugger that it is?), second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour. One click of the hand after another, reminding me that peaceful sleep has left my bed.

I suppose that I could close my eyes and try again. If I had the courage. If I had the guts. If I didn�t believe in monsters and terrors and things that go bump in the middle of the day.

But I don�t, and I do. And I am afraid to shut my eyes for fear of what I�ll show me next.

I have read that dreams are often a wake-up call for the conscious, courtesy of the subconscious. My subconscious not only sends wake-up calls, it is currently transmitting another stay-awake-all-night communication.

I think it hates me.

It sends me horrible pictures, terrifying scenes, psyche-scarring mini-movies. (I would cancel my service if I knew who my provider is. Too bad they aren�t as ominous as Media-Com. They certainly are as pushy. And as hateful.)

I had hoped that by recording my nightly sleep invaders, I could quench the surge of �Scary,� but it doesn�t seem to help quite the way I planned. Inking it out purges it from my present thoughts, my current dwellings, but soon another comes. It is as if the purge left a realtor and a vacancy sign behind. (And what a crafty little realtor that bitch is! Less than 24 hours later, she has found a new renter.)

Twenty more minutes and it will be time to get up and start anew.

What a joke. What a sick, twisted joke.

�Time to get, get dressed, and face the world for another day.� (Another day which follows another sleepless night.) �Don�t forget to smile, Ana, dear. It increases your face value!�

Yeah? Bite me.

Anathema-

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