Sleep is a faithless mistress. She will desert your bed at the first sign of trouble, leaving you to toss and turn in the wakeful darkness of your room. Days later, once you have worried your trouble like a bone, shaken it down and given it some semblance of order, she will return, softly, oh, ever so softly. Gently she will hold you in her arms, arms smooth as marble and soft as fine silk. Sweetly, Sleep will kiss your weary eyes, inviting you to relax and forget the cares you have so tediously worked to reduce to naught. She will caress your face, and run her hands down your neck and over your shoulders. You forget to chide her for leaving you for another, for abandoning you in your hour of need. Gradually, you secumb to the invitations of Sleep and, in the end, rest your head on her breast, forgetful of her infidelity, knowing only that your nightly mistress has returned.