(Luke and Sleep aren't, historically, the best of friends) || Accepting!
    Canât was, actually, a very good word for it.
    Because his eyes burned whether they were opened or closed, and his head was heavy, bones replaced with cement, and everything was very⌠silent. The garage. The wind. His head. Empty and still, just the way youâd think youâd hope it would be in order to fall asleep. No leftover thoughts to keep unraveling. No running list of sounds and the keys they fell into. Not a peep of the song heâd been writing earlier that day. Nothing at all.Â
    Well, now, nothing at all except the fact of the matter that there wasnât anything at all, which had begun to circle through his mind like the worldâs most contradictory chant.
    ( Iâm thinking nothing - Iâm thinking nothing - Iâm thinking nothing - )
    Whatever the nothing had been like before heâd been set onto the figure eight of âhow am I thinking nothing if Iâm thinking that Iâm thinking nothingâ had been escaped him, now. Like he could have said what nothing was like while he was there but, now that he wasnât, it was something that didnât make sense and never would. The same kind of thing as when he stared off into space sometimes and, when he noticed he was looking at nothing-but-something, his eyes shifted and focus came back and whatever not-anything he had been looking at was gone, and he wasnât sure where it was anymore or how he got his eyes to find it to begin with. Luke sighed heavily. He let his head fall -whumf- against the back of the couch.
    â. . . Think my head is busted, man, â he answered. With a different tone it could have been a joke, but it was just hoarse. And tired. He sat up again; sniffed loudly, with the same energy as when youâd buffed something out with the eraser-end of a pencil and now you were swiping away the little eraser bits, too. âSâtoo quiet.â
