It is 3:40 AM and darkness fills the hole in the window.  I cannot sleep.  It may be that I will not sleep—that I have not been designed to sleep or given permission to sleep.  It’s not clear to me.  Things that are being kept from me. I am only a character in a fiction subject to the whims of someone who considers him or herself an author, (It feels like a him.) This is someone who may or may not even let me live, someone who may cast the idea aside before the end of the first page.