I cannot sleep.  
This is the insomnia that bleeds through the whole universe, that makes my mind run at such a speed I can almost hear the little organic gears whirring and clicking—that makes me ache to live.  That creates characters made of personhood and not my own perceived need for circumstantially-bred catharsis.  That makes my quill shriveled up by three months of writer's block shiver in the zest of fresh ink.  That invents poetry at meteoric rates too quicksilver for my fingertips that run like clunky mouse feet over my keyboard.  That makes eyes glow in the darkness, makes color become texture; that makes the whole of the universe prowl around my infinitesimal compass of existence, sunrise and sunset in one, teeming with possibility.  That gives me an hour where I can take a knot of befuddled emotion and bind it with logic and rationale and observance and senses, and take logic and wrap it in emotion and moodiness and the tumbling swiftness of a hundred burning poems, and call them sentience.  I can create people made of people, even without a universe in which to put them.  I can create dragons made only of emotion; and breathe the magic made of the unfathomable, ever-roving tides of unplumbed knowledge.  
I cannot sleep, but for threescore minutes more, might I dream and live in one seamless conflagration of existence?