There is Sleep in the corner of the room. It is a place where ends come together to form a seamless stretch of space. Spiders reside there too, and sometimes Sleep shrinks away in fright and waits for Awake to stomp them out with her thick-soled shoes. Sleep owns nothing but his bare feet, and they have been known to get downright dirty. They gather dust and lint between the toes, and the heels and soles grow very dark. He never even cuts his nails; he likes to watch the growth of tiny moons that sharply loom and carry him from room to room. He likes to peek in through the windows and rearrange the drapes until they look like folded moths that hope to pull the ceiling down so they can surge brightly onward. Awake will not tolerate this sort of nonsense; she does not dally in or around the bedroom and prefers instead to lay sheets of dough-colored light over the countertops where it is useful for sorting out the forks from knives. She is bright, but Sleep is brighter for he knows what you imagine when you close your eyes and dream of things so luminous they plant the bulb of Day. His is the warmest loaf, the sharpest edge, the crustless slice that sends steam sighing out the heated oven.