Insomnia is the last groover on the dance floor, still going at it when everyone else has collapsed in a heap, singing along to all the tunes, whooping it up, letting it rip. But insomnia has no goddam beats.
Insomnia is your internalised Jewish mother: every time you feel yourself relaxing it prods you, wanting to know: are you hungry? Are you cold? Have you been to the toilet? Have you washed your face?
Insomnia is greedy, like the levitating egg-shaped ghoul from Ghostbusters who snuffles up platters of leftovers in hotel corridors before room service can clear them away.