There is a moment during the night when everything has murderous intent.
Yes, murderous indeed.
My pillows beg to smother me, while my blankets writhe so as to wrap about my throat.
The bed beneath my back wishes to rise and swallow me whole.
The walls wish to concave and flatten me like an unlucky bug,
While the ceiling bucks and tries to do the same.
The floors are plotting, readying to split beneath my bare feet,
While my bookshelves leer as they prepare to fling their papery missiles.
The windows and lamps shimmer as they wriggle, ready to explode in thousands of shards.
Tell me not of the heater, for it will burn me alive given the chance.