Falling asleep and itching:

As I was failing to fall asleep in the dry motionless heat of my room, hugging a blanket because I at least have to be hugging one if I cannot be under one, I was thinking about how everyone (or perhaps just me, projecting) never remembers the precise moment of falling asleep. It could be painful, or intense, or hallucinogenic in a different way than dreams or nightmares, or uncomfortable or beautiful or anything at all, and we would never know to seek it or avoid it (not that we would have a choice). Trying to grasp and hold that moment would, of course, end in wrenching awake again, or, more likely, not be possible in a state so near sleep. No willpower in drowsiness; no remembrance.

Pondering this, necessarily pushing myself farther from sleep, another thought shoved its way in, along with a fierce itch on my left calf, the one fenced off from my other leg's foot's toes by a wall of hugged blanket. Instead of scratching, I thought. I thought: look 'itch' up on Wikipedia tomorrow because what, exactly, is an itch? And why in the world would scratching help if it's internal? (Wikipedia was no help. Direct quote: "An itch (Latin: pruritus) is a sensation felt on an area of skin that makes a person or animal want to scratch it." What?)

Things happen to me that I don't feel, don't remember, and don't understand.