The first day I swore off sleep, it kept sneaking up on me, purring like a cat, stroking like a lover. I had to pour cold water on my head and eat five hot peppers, one right after another.

The second day there was so much time. When you’re awake for 48 hours, new pockets seem to open up in the day. I discovered new parts of the night: a deep narrow trough at 2 a.m., a blue-gray slide towards 4.

Now it is the third day. I am in a box, and the walls of the box are painted just like the walls of my house, except that all of my furniture is painted on them too. I can reach out and touch my dresser or my bed or the trash can filled with tissues, but I know that actually these things are only painted on the inside of the box. When I walk from room to room, the walls change, but I cannot get out of the box. From time to time, though, I see a chink in the wall, a tiny place that has no color. I think these are glimpses of the fourth day.

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