Every night I sleep. Every night I dream I'm in hell.

I'm not sure why it happens. I've grown indifferent to the experience. It's something that happens with frightening regularity and yet I accept its actuality with neither fear nor hesitation. It's no different than drinking or breathing.

Sometimes at night I lie in bed and I wait for sleep to consume me. I lie there in dread anticipation of the inevitable. Sometimes my heart beats so fast I begin to tremble. When I finally calm myself the droning buzz of sleep weighs like a coffin lid. In this state I can see the ravenous clutching hands of the dream upon my throat. I expect it to hurt. To my eternal surprise it never does.

My friend Jeong-hwa says I worry too much. Maybe it's true. I feel I have much to worry about. It's the responsible thing to do. An adult has worries.

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Falling asleep on some nights is worse than others. Sunday and Monday in particular I find troublesome. It's Sunday evening. Of course I can't sleep.

I dragged myself out of bed. I tried to be quiet. I didn't want to wake the other girls on the floor. I got my journal from my locker. No one stirred. I crept down the steps. I tried to be mindful of the occupant on the other side of the building. We're only separated by a thin wall. It's the dormitory owner's room.

I don't think anything would happen if she caught me out past curfew—it's not like I'm outside or anything—But still I don't want the complexity of having to explain myself. I don't think it's her business anyway.

I'm not sure what I'm talking about. It's not like I've seen her before or anything. I'm just imagining how bad things could go. It's a bad habit I really should work on.