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A shadowed figure hovers before my vision.  A small, bone hand beckons to him.  Me.  Who is this tyrant who calls my very name, addresses me as if a friend?  Such sweet words of enticement, what can I do but succumb?  Who, who, who 'tis it now, what is the moniker of this terror form?  'Tis sleep, death's younger brother.  Yawn.

         A pasture beyond the sunset,
         within which dwells a special soul,
         Never to any has yet,
         Shared his den, his home, his bowl.
         This harried, relaxing sort,
         Dreams by day of sailing long,
         Passing not one pleasured port,
         Leaving each no less than strong,
         And as his head rests
         Upon thicket or mound of hollow,
         Starlings forget their feathered crests,
         And into the night, they follow.

The sandwich was nearly gone when I got that familiar feeling.  It was more familiar at this particular time, for I seemed to be once again passing through a stage of ill-ease.  At least, as far as my gut was concerned.  Anything more than a mouthful or two, and my body called my thoughts into question, and harsh scrutiny.