Often, it could be a noise from the street slipping through the window, or the lights of a random car reflecting stray light across the ceiling. Each night she would lie awake recounting the day, recalling insignificant events from days or years earlier.
   It was quite unremarkable, she would say, nothing important, but enough to occupy her mind. Rarely would she remember falling asleep, and the alarm clock would remind her every morning that another night had passed.
   “I don’t dream,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Ever.”
   “How do you know?”
   “Because each day I wake up, and all I ever hope for is more sleep.”

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