Getting to sleep is sometimes like a negotiation, like a car you really want to buy but can’t afford. So you haggle, take out the stereo, a lighter engine will do, and then, before you know it, you are hurtling along the highway in a car that is so bareboned and dangerous you don’t want to look down. Staring into the darkness, the red numbers on the alarm clock searing into the back of your brain. You feel like 1.58 am will be burned forever into the back off your head. Then the number changes, and you find yourself engaged in a bizarre dialogue. If they were burning, I mean if the numbers on the clock had the power to burn the inside of my skull, I guess the mark would eventually look like four eights right? Yeah, four eights, you find yourself replying, maybe inside everybody’s head there are four eights branded in digital font. I wonder if green LCD or red LCD is more corrosive? Then you notice the blinking second counter between the 1 and the 59 and you think to yourself, “four eights, but two on either side of the dots, like a butterfly.” Now you think you have something, you think to yourself, this is crazy – you think you’re Hunter Thompson and you want to write it all down. Where is the pen, ah screw it, I am too tired. Too tired to write the great new American novel that starts with four eights burned inside a guy’s skull and yet too awake to sleep. Funny how that happens. The fridge kicks in, its strong whirring sound makes the alarm clock look like a pussy and you think, burn inside my head, yeah right – then you think about the fridge – pushing in on your ears.