What is sleep?
It goes over me, like a shadow over a hill,
but it does not alter me, nor help me.
And death would ache still, I am sure;
it would be lambent, uneasy.
I wish it would be completely dark everywhere,
inside me, and out, heavily dark
—D. H. Lawrence, from “And Oh – That The Man I Am Might Cease To Be,” The Complete Poems. (Penguin Classics; New edition edition January 1, 1994)