Insonomatopoeia

Too tired for logic to operate, his mind grows stubborn, lethargic, and dull. He struggles to write and refuses to go to bed until something has emerged on the page. He asks for characters and instead gets the din of a faceless crowd. He lays up late at night in his high-rise, naked and pressed up against the floor to ceiling window like a vertical mattress, the city sprawled beneath him with pinpricks of light, tail lights curling around the bend in the highway like slowly draining blood. Insomnia clutches hold of his neck and shakes him awake, jars his brain, screams in his ear like a wicked banshee. But he soothes the witch, combs her hair, rubs her shoulders, trails his fingers along the curve of her humped back until her eyelids grow heavy, her gray straw hair fallen over her shriveled face, the empty cave of mouth, sunken cheeks, lips drawn in tight in a snore like a death rattle.