Nothing: A Portrait of Insomnia by Blake Butler

I cant talk like I wish possible about this book because it is that swirl of goodness prose that is hard for me to talk about--so dense, so far reaching, so relatable yet POW, so unrelentingly dark. I love it but sorry sorry here is a bit of the booyeah.

from The Uncontrollable Reflection

A night ruined of its silence might begin in any way. In fighting its own exit, on the pillow, my brain at night will cling to anything it can corral--however dumb or old or overreaching. The idle thought initiates itself. The feeling of the thought sometimes seems to spin or worm inside my forehead, or I might roll mnemonically inside it, as in a terrifying drunk. Then the first thought begets the second, following its sound. Usually the thought is not of something massive--the bigger worries of the day already so embedded they are as if part of the air--but instead the mind often comes to take hold of the smallest bolt or jut of time.