“Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I’ll wake up with sweat drenching my chest and think it’s the blood and muck I was covered in that night.”

“I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I'd half-awaken. He'd stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling a mother for milk. And some mornings I'd wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I'd been painted with roses.”

“I feel as though whenever I create something, my Mr. Hyde wakes up in the middle of the night and starts thrashing it. I sometimes love it the next morning, but other times it is an abomination.”

“Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.”

“I wake in the night. Or sometimes I don't wake in the night. It hardly seems to make a difference.”

“Sometimes things seem so unbearable in the middle of the night, don't they? In the middle of the night, we're all such children.”