My aunt recently sent me a poem I evidently wrote as a child:
Mr. Moon sits up in a nook,
Fishing the tides with his fishing hook.
He pulls the tides in
And he pulls the tides out,
And he swirls the currents all about.
I got to the end of the day and was afraid I wouldn’t be able to sleep, as I was still haunted by a dream from the night before in which I sobbed helplessly while hearing a song listing the beautiful, complicated names of all the white horses that had been slain. Who would even do that, and why?
So I made this picture, and then yes, I did sleep.