I have brushed my teeth and taken off my contacts. I am clean now, at least in my perspective, freshly showered in my large (startup schwag) American Apparel t-shirts. Voices outside may travel into my room. They are wandering passerbys who converse from the popular foodie heaven next door. They are the people who are trying to get into a uber or lyft. But it calms down and the roar of the car rolls by. Occasionally, I hear a distant horn of the Caltrain, pulling into its penultimate stop at 22nd Street, just 2 miles away over the hill.
But I rest on the left side of my bed, sinking further and further. Rarely does insomnia ravage my sleep, except for those nights away from these nights, my mind surrounded by the same routine, but my body hears different noises, perhaps silence or the step outside my hotel door or the unfamiliarity of the bed and pillow. But in my room with the barest of light tinkling off the ceiling’s chandelier, I fall into my favorite drug of all—sleep.