sam has never slept much.
in motel rooms, in his earliest memories,there were always car doors,sirens and flashing lights to jolt him out of sleep, crying for his brother.
at stanford, this is unreal anyway, it isn’t going to last, i don’t get to have this, don’t dream and don’t tell Jess.
on the road, nightmares and visions of people, calling “save me”, there was only urgency then.
after hell, sleep was blue and ice, red and burning, smelling of flesh and despair.
and now? well, it’s easier to make index cards at 2am, than to dream of that quiet voice whispering “i’m still here”