Nocturne

I'm in a hotel in Springfield, IL, typing this on my phone. As you can likely guess, typing a post on one's phone is quite the pain in the ass, but it is out of my love for you that I suffer willingly, dear reader.

My room has a king-sized bed, and I never know what to do with one.  I feel like I'm sleeping in a swimming pool, and there's no doubt that I will wake up several times during the night wondering how I got onto the roof, only to realize I'm just in a stupidly large bed.  The dulcet tones of non-stop I-55 traffic will carry me off to slumber in the way that only diesel can.  Government shutdown, biblical plague, alien invasion; the freight must go on.

 I have six pillows and deciding which to lie my massive dome on is the hardest decision I'll have today. Luckily my unconscious mind is equal opportunity, and as I sleep my head will skip between them like a frog on lilypads.  

There's a whirlpool bath, and no, I didn't use , but from the warning signage the hotel has placed in the bathroom, it seems like a barrel of fun.  I have taken to a cold shower before bed every evening, as I believe it helps with sleep, with hormones, and immunity.  Since it leads one to dance around and curse like a sailor, I can only assume that it relieves stress as well.

Yours in prairieness,
Matt