Forget the perfect offering. Everything is flawed. It's the cracks that let the Light in... - Leonard Cohen

The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world.

No juice to be hopeless, no heart to be sad.
I tried in the wind, tried in the sand.

Here the destruction is subtle, and there the body is torn. Here the breaking is perceived, and there the dead unaware carry their putrid remains. All trade in filth, carry their filth one to another, all walk the streets as though the ground did not recoil, all stretch their necks to bite the air, as though the breath had not withdrawn. The seed bursts without a blessing, and the harvest is gathered as if it were food.