My Sleep Angels and a Sleep Pillow--available at my shop.
I awake already looking forward to that time very early the next morning (for I am one of them they call night owls) when I sink my head into a soft rectangle of cotton enrobed in cotton, let my lids drop down to shut off the rest of the world, and begin what is often the slow languorous promenade into my dusky refuge. It is a village populated quite often by very regular folk, but then they also make their regular appearances, my giggly vampires and my favorite chocolate trees, a few overweight robots and some nude parents, a couple of 27-year-old dead rock stars and a mouthful of singing teeth. Somewhere in there, inside a green apartment on the 56th floor of a breathing skyscraper, of course you will find a bullet-dodging, flying version of me.
Sleep. Why wake up to brush your teeth and wash last night's dishes when dreaming is often so much more interesting?