It can sneak up on a sleeping girl, the night time terror can. I wake up gasping, reaching for something familiar, but I’m blind to my room, to myself. Names and faces appear and fade. I turn, turn again, try to find sleep in this maze of a mind. They say it’s the lack of fat. It won’t allow my synapses to be crossed properly so I jump between worlds and have excuisitely precise and prophetic dreams between nightmares. Nutrition should fix it, they say. But for now, I watch my mind battle itself, knowing that part of it is insistent on chaos and the other is desperately tring to provide peace. By then it’s 3am and I lay still. Pray. Listen to Chopin. And wait for the giants playing a game of marbles in my head to quiet down so my little body can rest.