Greek calends.

In the long minutes that precede dawn the darkness stretches itself thin, becoming transparent and brittle almost to the point of breaking. The air is heavy and cold, and as the war between night and day approaches its denouement an unnatural stillness freezes everything into place for one fleeting moment. This is when I first open my eyes, mere seconds after 4:30, sleepy and disoriented and generally disappointed. Whatever fantastic nocturnal voyages I had embarked upon in slumber still play through my mind, irrevocably tinting the rest of my day in dripping, dusty hues.

This is the literal permutation of waking up on the wrong side of the bed, and to combat such an early conquest of my day I've been practicing Occlumency each night, avidly clearing my mind of thought and emotion, closing myself off to all external influence. For a brain accustomed to hyperactivity this has proven more difficult than I would have imagined, and on more than one occasion I've found myself wrestling with unconscious images both discerning and dispiriting alike: A phial of sand cracked open upon the ground, a ghostly version of myself unmoved as she watches the seconds between us lengthen into infinity. In sleep I am right, when I've never so wanted to be wrong.

In sleep, I'm a Viking.