The patron saint of sleepless nights lights incense and candles at three am. Idles just a moment just before dawn. Wears dark colored friendship bracelets, frayed and faded. Sets garden quartz and black tourmaline on their altar. Counts the stars to try and fall asleep. Fucks in the dew drenched grass under a full moon. Accepts gifts of coffee, alcohol, and the souls of the reckless. Is relentlessly exhausted at every damn meeting of the saints. They show up unhurried and a little chaotic. Wanders the woods at night in the company of wolves and coyotes and foxes. They write soul-bearing poetry by candlelight. Shedding a layer of skin with each line. They snack on cigarettes, gin and tonics, and the hearts of your exes. Grins with the lifeblood of their enemies dripping from their teeth. The edges of their body always a little faded looking, giving them an ethereal look. They wear no halo. Of course they don’t. Resides in a wooden cabin at the edge of a forest. Remains to themself, shrouded in darkness. Worn and eternally fatigued and a chronic insomniac. The patron saint of sleepless nights doesn’t sleep.
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