Just a Stub
He realized that there wasn't any possibility of him getting to his laundry. Not at this hour of the night, or depending on how you looked at it, the wee hours of the morning. He'd always liked to think of himself as an early riser, who apparently shunned the orthodox methods of falling asleep before the act of getting up and simply bypassing being unconscious altogether. That, he'd thought, was really just cutting out the middle man.
No one had really thought it necessary to tell him that sleeping wasn't the destination, but the journey.
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