The city began by burning sleep in torches and lanterns, strung in between the shophouses and dangling from the boats. When flames and kerosene were no longer sufficient, they wove metal fibres underground and hung sleep from the streetpoles, sodium-yellow dripping onto the sidewalks. People emerged from their houses in droves to see them, clutching children's and lovers' hands alike. Families, whole, were drawn into by the glow. The light drew slits in every shutter, and punctured holes through every living room -- for the people kept their doors open, in those days. Through all of this, the blood of sleep ran white through the gutters, and mingled with the stench of the night air.

Then abbatoirs of sleep opened: night markets and supper stretches, discotheques and dance halls, sordid brothels and bars. In each of them was an island of light, where the ashes of sleep were buried to reclaim land from the night, tamped down by our aching feet. Cars ran over sleep by the herd, until sleep was a bloody smear down the side of Marymount Road, mingled with the soil of the nature reserve. At the newly-built casino, they threw sleep dowm from the viewing deck, where it slid against the curved sides of the building in most comical ways. They roasted sleep in pots and pans and pancake stalls, and flung sleep into the night sky with fireworks. Much joy and money was made from these acts, and the city grew rich. Skyscrapers were fattened on the bodies of sleep. (When that ran out, they fed them on the sleep of others, flown in from across the seas.)

A voice, over the radio. This city has murdered sleep; therefore, the city will sleep no more. The night is still young, the Grabs are still running, and the blood's barely begun to dry. They'll think of dawn only when it comes.