With night shift, poor sleep is commonplace. Between 2:00 a.m. and 3 a.m. as my thoughts grow dark and I recall Shakespeare Hamlet;

Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on

Could it be perhaps that Hamlet just needed to sleep at night? Does not the mind sort out its own nebulous trauma of life in dreams? The world is heavy and dark. Evil and misdeeds swirl in endless darkness wrapping our weary souls in a blanket of despair. The escape of dreams… the abstract ticking and tocking of the ancient circadian rhythm… sooths the mind. Like a soiled rag the mind is cleaned and wrung out. It drinks the healing waters and dissipates the poison. For those brave souls who work nights, who desperately would welcome the bedbugs biting in trade for the invisible swirling yelling of demons dwelling in the silence of lost minds. The thoughts of the exhausted are forfeit. Conflicts and grievances cut deep into old scars. Dialogues, scenarios sharpen blades of hells armies forming ranks of dark thoughts ready for battle. The cry to manifest thoughts into action screams as the room begins to wobble. The fortress of the mind must hold until fingers of light reach through the windows and offer hope.

Dreaming of daytime, remembering rested daydreams are sweet.

The dark night follows me until I slay in its lair.

Victory over night by surrendering in the night.

Nothing good every happens after 2 a.m.

Bitter Business hours closed in the light.

Ironic how nightmares plague those whose eyes drink forbidden light in the very witching hours of the night. Perhaps it is best not to act upon demonic plans that fall from the yawning church yards. Soon I shall wash my mind with the warm waters of nocturnal dreamscapes. Thick dark snake scales will shed from my eyes as un-quaking daylight softly calls me into the morning. Perhaps I will walk my Aussies through the trees and green grass of my neighborhood urning for hot coffee instead of hot blood.

-Zachary W. Gilbert 2026