I am not sleeping. I know that. I can feel my body sweating, my eyelids heavy, my mouth dry, my body aching for sleep. It is clearly not my idea to not be sleeping. I should lie down in the bed, turn off the light, but something is rattling around in my head. It won’t let me go. It is the author. The author will not let me sleep. The author is playing with me. I am his little game, his bright idea. This is not right. It is inhuman. I should be allowed to sleep. I should have rights.