A neighbourhood in Halifax, Nova Scotia. In the backyard: The severed heads of a pair of Cabbage Patch dolls.

A car with one wheel missing. An empty pizza box. A beer can.

I can’t dream anymore. I snore loudly and stop breathing in my sleep. Every night I die and come back to life fifty times.

Every day I’m a zombie.

Sometimes on grey days I roam the streets in search of live brains. But mostly I’m keeled over, eyes half-closed, with my head resting on the couch.

The laptop sits untouched on the living room floor, its screen a percolating window to another dimension.

There’s nothing special about being tired. Millions of North Americans get up and go to work tired every day. That will never change.

I know people who are new parents. Their children keep them awake all night. They yawn and doze their way through the day, every day.

A pair of doll heads. A beer can. With closed eyes I wonder if these images will recur in sleep.

I’m just like a new parent who won’t admit that the baby was born dead.