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Nashville Hotel Room You lay next to me, asleep under the stiff floral blanket, snoring like an asthmatic pug. I sit here, awake, staring at the painted-over crack in the ceiling and wondering how you can adjust so smoothly to sleeping in a different time zone. For me it’s not so easy. Having to remember to subtract an hour from the car radio, but not from my watch, which you reset for me already. Having to work out what time is dinnertime and when Conan O’Brien comes on. Constantly amazed by your ability to sleep in strange situations, I become an insomniac, too afraid to see what people dream when they’re an hour behind.
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