As the world turns toward winter and the nights grow long, people begin to wake in the dark. Lying in bed too long cramps the limbs, and dreams dreamt too long turn inward on themselves, grotesque as a Mandarin's fingernails. By and large, the human body isn't adapted for more than seven or eight hours' sleep-but what happens when the nights are longer than that? What happens is the second sleep. You fall asleep from tiredness, soon after dark-but then wake again, rising toward the surface of your dreams like a trout coming up to feed. And should your sleeping partner also wake then-and people who have slept together for a good many years know at once when each other wakes-you have a small, private place to share, deep in the night. A place in which to rise, to stretch, to bring a juicy apple back to bed, to share slice by slice, fingers brushing lips. To have the luxury of conversation, uninterrupted by the business of the day. To make love slowly in the light of an autumn moon. And then, to lie close, and let a lover's dreams caress your skin as you begin to sink once more beneath the waves of consciousness, blissful in the knowledge that dawn is far off-that's second sleep.
( Diana Gabaldon )
[ A Breath of Snow and Ashes ]
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