Without my consent, I creep each night into the space of my thoughts. When it is dark, what “could have beens” tumble into what is. Time has slipped by, reminding me of what is incomplete, unthought of, or ruined. Generational failure drifts as a glimpse into what should have been. Long retired, the anxieties of work worm into the crevices of empty times. Sleep eludes me.