Teardrops of drawn water rain from above upon my skin, flowing along it—nay, clinging to it, with a grip indescribable, yet unnoticeable, until their inevitable drop from the edge of the tense surface. The droplets pitter patter upon the ground in time to the beat of a drum in my head, tensing and tiring me further. Spiraling down from the long journey from above the fluid flows gently yet stiffly along the curves of the skin to the drain. My tired eyes observe each  and yet none of them fall. 
	
I try to observe each drop as it falls darting my view all about trying not to exclude anything, but one cannot be all-seeing. One must decide what they wish to see, or they will see nothing or a distinct lack of something. The undecided mind changes nothing. No decisions, no relaxation, such a statement remains fact at all times of every day. The tension began to voluntarily release against my permission throwing my consciousness into vague unconsciousness, and of course the biology remained ignorant of the gravity of the situation and the stress continues.

I, the sandman, compelling force of sleep, grip the boy in a firm grasp, by his volition and will alone, but I cannot be sustained purely by will, just as a battery with no energy can provide no current, no flow of charge—of change. The potential difference over time shrinking as the boy’s spark of strength spirals into zeroes and falls apart, slowly, at the hinges. Growing tired of physics and staring at the glowing screen before him, his eyes, slowly close together… But! He reopens them; the stubborn boy, he just won’t give up.  The boy remains unscathed despite my strained efforts in stretching him thin. He, now thick as a box cutter, dense as a compressed orb of matter, like a black hole in physical form, draining energy from all that surrounds him and drawing it from any source from which he could grab it. The loudest music, the most caffeine, he went for it all. Anywhere he could get energy, he took it. He held himself under no limitations for this. My hands shook him about some more and his firm grip on reality slowly loosened to make way for the unconscious relaxation of each eyelid, both slowly coming to another close over each dry, glassy eye. Both of them were surrounded undeniably by wrinkles followed by the shower water. His balance was becoming shaky. I was winning.

I, the man beneath the showerhead trying to keep my eyes opened fell asleep for but a moment and reawakened to find myself face to face with the curse of exhaustion and drain, as I felt sleep’s ever enclosing presence and sometimes the need to grasp for her hand so that my drain may be numbed, so that my pain will be numbed, but fantasies shall be just that, fantasies. To think it possible to defy logic, pain, stress and the laws binding the truths of reality, only he or she with a wrinkle in their grip on the real, will feel, mentally, psychologically at peace. Sleep heals all and brings all to peace. 

I, the force of slumber, lay beside him slowly draining his life from him as he tries harder and harder, tensing further and further, to push his limits beyond the sensible, perhaps beyond the possible, or at least what should be possible. I gave him naught but the will to move forward, yet he, now, refused it, and his own body and mind slowly dragged his health to ruin. The energy emptied out of him as he struggled to keep his wakeful state of body and mind. His soul was slowly stretching and tearing to pieces, bit by bit, tensing and snapping, tensing and snapping. *Stretch* *SNAP* it would go, over and over, endlessly, it would seem. With each snap he gave me more and allowed himself to be dragged under his health and state of mind. Weakness in absence of strength is inevitable. He who hasn’t danced with the shadow of sleep’s sister exhaustion, knows not true weakness, for he has not lost his strength as his will fails to overpower his partner’s.

Sweat dripped slowly across my forehead as I realized the time shift, forward four hours, stress unmoved with still barely more than two hours remaining, but I struggled and pushed forward. I swung my collapsed form back into an upright position. ‘Damn, napping again.’ My desire to press forward helped me temporarily overcome my exhaustion. To stop is to fail, and I must yield to none, and lose to none, so fail I shan’t and betray my own heart too I shall not. Yet, still, I’ve stretched my wakeful resources past logical boundaries of the human mind. I’ve been in a semi-wakeful state for far too long. Far too long it has  been since my eyes closed for a proper rest. My hand’s tendons pulled back at each tap, tap, tapping of the keys, and my wrist expanded in bothersome pain in exclamation at each motion of it in any way. but thankfully the pain brought me clarity and wakeful awareness. 

The pain bearably unbearable, no longer sensible or feel-able. I suppose now that too, has been taken from me. I’ve grown so tired now that I cannot even feel pain. My wrinkled skin scrunched again, even more, as my pupils gripped tightly upon the screen of LED lights before them, unwilling to give in to temptation, unwilling to relent and allow myself to give in. As her hands envelop me, she embraces me in a desire to give in to temptation, but again I could not devote myself to her’ lest I be force to face the cruel fate of failure. ..so I tightened my psychological hold on the tap, tap, pitter, patter sound of water droplets on the floor, hoping it would ground me to the world of wakefulness as I gripped the faucet’s knob, and turned it off. Good night.