I hate to sleep, and dreams are rare.
	The silence is hell but cannot share
	my misery with with anyone else.
	They do not know what misery is:
	or mine, at least,
	it does not show a literary crease.
	Happiness is gone to somewhere else, and is not free.
	And that, or course, is misery.
	It's been a bit transcendental really,
	And gone beyond an erstwhile theory.
	It is my home,
	I hate to sleep.
	Fides nostrum longe iter fecit.