All night long I couldn’t sleep. I kept tossing and turning, smoking, sticking my head out into the garden to cool off. My nerves, I guess, were on edge after everything that happened. Dramba was standing in the corner and glowing in the dark. Finally, I chased him out, just to vent some anger. All sorts of nonsense kept springing up in my head, all kinds of irrelevant pictures. And on top of everything else, the treacherous cot. I had to flog it, since it kept turning into a soft bed, the kind that everybody here most likely sleeps in, and, what’s worse, it shaped itself like a cradle to rook me into sleep. Like a baby.
But the real trouble isn’t that I can’t sleep – I can go three days without sleep without it affecting me – the main thing is that I can’t think like a real human being.
