Slowly the god of slumber draws back on his bow – his aim is true. The bowstring stretches the creaking wood under it's pressure, as energy courses it's length. His arrow flies like the flash of lightning through the sky and for a moment looks as if it hangs in the air before slamming into it's target. Slowly the power of sleep over takes its unsuspecting victim as his eyes droop in drugged stupor. The body gives up it's fight long before the mind and carries it along into sleep's unbridled passion. The bed awaits, like a mother upon it's injured child, with arms outstretched. Dreams descend like valkyries upon the fields of war.
How lovely is sleep, the weak younger brother of death.
