(sidd_)

When you're lying awake with a dismal headache and repose is tabooed by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety. For your brain is on fire; the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you. First, your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you. Then the blanketing tickles; you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking. And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking. Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick 'em all up in a tangle. Next, your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle.