British Erotic Author

When you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep and you’re never really awake. I want to sleep, but my brain won’t stop talking to itself. Nothing's real, everything’s far away. All just a copy of a copy, of a copy. The darkness is the hardest time to be alive, that ticking clock knows all my dirty secrets. Someone once said nothing solves insomnia like a nice warm glass of regret, depression and self-loathing. I have drunk enough of that, yet, still have room for more.

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Watching the second hand of the clock as it ticks away, one second at a time of my miserable existence. Mouth is dry, and I reach out for the glass of water, sitting as it always did next to the alarm clock. The gold-plated Rolex watch, its silent partner, placed there before climbing into bed. Ritual, a big part of my daily routine an irrational sense of panic sets in