Your mind is mashed under the weight of fatigue, the pestle plunging down my already murky thoughts stuck at the bottom of the cold and immobile mortar. Grinding, slowly, but surely. My fingers, at the other extreme of my failing consciousness, desperately attempt to make sense of my thoughts and translate them into visible words. But how hard they try and still fail often to press down all the keys on the keyboard. They even continue to type when my eyes start to fail me, can't see if the words are misspelled by the typing or that my vision is failing. For a second I would even doze off while the poor fingers exhaust their final ration of energy before my head kicks off another burst of mental power. Nothing else on my body is moving, not in anyway, not even protesting. It's like at closing time in a bar while a few customers still stubbornly clinging to their last drop of alcohol and last sentence of conversation; everything else is closing down. The stools are all out upside-down on the tables. The mop is just about done with its task and is about to be put away. All the tables, including the bar which the lingering people are using, are wiped and you can still see the shiny water residue. That's my body. Everything is shutting down while my fingers, my half-shut eyes, and a hopelessly defiant but most tired of the organs, the brain, these co-conspirators try in inevitable defeat to keep the ship awake.
But this ship is sailing forward into dreamland. There is not much left to be said. The head is bobbing left and right and a desperate plea for sleep. And so I give it permission to command the fingers to finish the last few words, submit this story of doomed attempts, and pull the comforter over the whole body for the night to pass.
