_{What can I say, now? It's all the same.
Sleep comes, and sleep goes. Things may rotate, things may look different in the afternoon than they did in the morning; Always at night, they seem to be something else completely. But they never change, not really.
Everything seems important, and maybe it is, sometimes. Flip it over and it changes, the dynamic of it all, the way the currents touch it, and it's upside down and backwards and it's useless. Same object, different perspective.
Sometimes, you don't ask for him, but Charlie the Ghost will come, and he's there in those most vivid and lucid moments when you're failing to sleep; reminding you: how years ago the afternoons were long and you could conquer galaxies in an hour. When once, you investigated the closets, searched for doorways into other worlds, other times, any other place besides the boring turn of hours in the day. Waited for fireflies, made lanterns with them, watched them, in some innocent but sickening way, as they faded and died.}

Everything dies, Charlie tells you, so don't act as if you've risen above the cycle. Don't act as if it's forever. It isn't. If luck permits, it may become one of the memories, some twenty years later, the ones that keep you from sleeping. Otherwise, it's all gone, forgotten... in that, at least, we are all forgiven.