Right now, I can’t see the time for the vortex.
For those who didn’t master in ‘Mutilated Clichés’, I’d love to give a current time, except we’re surrounded by it, making that a tad difficult. Outside the wooden doors, it’s all relative, confusing, and gives me a monstrous headache. To go along with the hundred others I’ve been having since…*shrugs*. Difficult to date pain.
TimeLess seems to enjoy being inside the TARDIS. Wide pockets of creation wash gently past us every few moments; I have the main exterior screens on and left him to his own devices and irregular speech patterns. Caught something about a catfish before I wandered off.
Night-time wanders of my ship are always a smidgen of an adventure. Imagine tackling a maze that’s fighting back; just as you think you’re somewhere familiar, it turns out I’m actually in a corridor devoted to disused hotel receptions. Fully functional, apart from a distinct lack in cheesy-grinned receptionsits and dangerously polite bellhops. Took a handful of random counter-bowl sweets just for something to snack on besides chewitts.
Sleeplessness plagues me, more than any bubonic varieties could ever dream of. I’ve heard small, entirely unnecessary stories of humans being unable to sleep through bluebottles flying about or loud music coming from another house. I’m willing to swap anytime. If any other being in creation can rest easy through the screams of distant universes and constant pleas for help smashing through their head, then please, contact me. I’ll take someone’s down-the-road “dubstep” anytime.
The Universal Residue-mind thing isn’t the only thing. Confidence, I can make a falsehood of: stick your hands in the pockets of a long coat and experiment with types of swagger. But put me in a room, with nothing but a bed, eight hours of darkness and my own imagination to contend with, you’ll find me the next morning scratching thoughts into the floor with mattress springs and bags under my eyes.
I can’t sleep. I won’t sleep. It’s all the same thing. TimeLess may soon learn of all nightmare-ish memories that like to roam with me in these endless halls. Personally, I might look forward to it. The rigid mechanics of a Dalek brain verses his inexplicable one could be rather entertaining. I’ll just be sure to roar “RUN!” extra loud at any demanding moment.
What would happen now, if I did sleep? If I let my guard down, just once, and allow my unconscious to have a little tantrum. I’m sure Freud would love to attend that little meeting, which can easily be arranged.
Or, after a thousand years of restlessness, maybe I’d just sleep the next millennium through. Overwork the TARDIS, dealing with all the build up. I’ve wandered the depths of my ship countless times, whenever sleep is an option for anyone else. Yet in all my time doing so, I’ve found not one bedroom.
They’re in here somewhere, I know it. The companions have tried them, countless times. Something in the TARDIS circuits stops me. I can’t sleep, because I am not allowed, apparently.
After a quick tour of some disused section of a 46th century warehouse, a track to the console room opens up. Upon re-entering, I find TimeLess, still sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the continuums worth knowing glide by on-screen.
He shows no signs of desiring sleep, himself. If there’s always someone worse off than yourself, whatever pity I have left will go to my new companion if I ever discover it’s actually him.
Planet of the Mentally-Lost White Rabbits, coming up.