Sunday morning falls like an anvil on the head of Wile E. Coyote. I’ve again let my demons of the night follow me into the morning. Their promises of thrill and pleasure have morphed into realities of pain and torture. This isn’t the first morning I’ve pressed my ear against the mattress, hoping to hear some of its soothing whispers. Begging it to tell me tales of cold compresses and handfuls of ibuprofen. Knocks on the door of my skull signal that the drug addled dub-step DJ has come to collect his pay. My suffering will have to suffice as compensation. Crumbled against the palm of my clammy hand is the ticket. For the third time this month I have wagered my body and health on a summer weekend, and it’s time to assess the damage. Today it seems there is no substantial destruction. No blood, no obviously fractured limbs and no evidence of a whooping cough. It’s early though, not all the horses are in. It is likely, as of now, I will see another day, but that day is a fucking Monday. When the alarm goes off and I stare at the infinitely blank ceiling, I will resume my prayers for more weekend punishment. Ready to wager my young machine on spirits offering spirits in the dark and the promise of temporary torture when the sun expels the glimpses of mystery we chased under the moon.