Yesterday I misplaced the reading glasses that would have allowed me a soporific as I lolled before sleep, but even without them, sleep arrived in the darkness that was the only alternative without reading material.
I wonder what the salesman might say if I announced from my side of the counter, "I'd like 100 pounds of sleep, please." Would he be flummoxed or would he be used to old people and their peculiar requests? Perhaps I'll try it out, but more likely not: There is something within that rebels at being classed among the elderly and peculiar. From where I sit, I am not peculiar and hence decline to be classed by some ignorant second opinion.
There are enough leftover books on the porch shelves and I read leftovers these days -- books mostly forgotten and so worthy of a reprise. Sometimes they are too familiar, but hey, they still hum like some lulling housemaid vacuuming the living room rug ... just a murmured hum that remembers something and yet the precise what of what is remembered is forgotten.
Enough books to hum me to sleep.