Late Nights

Pickle is tired. It's nothing new.

He can't remember the last time he got a good night's sleep, not between the many hours he's spent staring up at his ceiling and the semi-permanent fog that's settled itself in his exhausted brain. No fog, no relaxing, no routines, and no (frankly absurd) amounts of melatonin have helped him. Nothing will. It's pointless, now, for him to even bother going to bed, even if body, his mind, his very soul cry out for rest.

So he doesn't.