Chronic insomnia since I was a child. A cyclonic brain that will not rest, that is always ready to run, to keep moving; a gift of epigenetics. On this night, I am kept awake by the emotionally violent work of long-term eldercare for a mentally ill mother, by the news of babies and more babies dying thousands of miles away, by the cortisol-drenched shame of relapse. An earworm, and I begin to hum that old Cat Stevens line where do the children play. from Forever Less of Beauty by Elissa Altman

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