It's been sixty days Since the black sky opened up the food-gates. Fell down hard on the sun-stained fair-grounds. Held back any Recollection Of the bloodshed Somehow. And now This unending rain Stopping short on the surface of the watery graves Is another, even nicer, simpler sort of silence these days. Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague. This is what he wrote in the ripped-up note: I've become something even less than a ghost. Even more of a though, I've become a mirage. I'm the shaky air encircling the flickering flame. I'm the white wall swallowing the window frame. Don't be so afraid of the insomnia plague.