The cure was discovered at 3.05 am whilst wandering during an interval of sleep.
His episodes follow similar patterns. He wakes, he walks, he leaks, he checks his blog. On the way back to bed, he has an idea. He tells himself not to forget the idea before falling into a shallow sleep.
In the morning, the idea has flown.
Not tonight, he told himself. Tonight he would conquer the forgetfulness of sleep. Tonight he would remember. He should have put some writing paper at the side of the bed. He could have sent an email to himself that he would wake up to in the morning. He could even have carved the idea into the skin of his arm. At this point the reader must be reminded that the subject has only just come off Prozac.
No, he thought. No.
‘I will write the idea on the wall opposite the bed.” Again this was a lack of Prozac. “I will imagine that I will write it on the wall. Then, when I get up in the morning, I can look at the wall and read the large print that was made with black paint. Simple.”
Some time later he slept. Some time after that he woke. The morning chorus was doing its rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody.
“Is this the real life,” he thought before something dragged him out of the moment. “The wall,” he thought, “The wall has writing on it.”
He looked at the wall and it had no writing on it which was a good thing as huge letters in black paint would be very difficult to erase. Indeed, his snoozing wife would have probably killed him as an act of mercy. Still, he gazed at the wall, but there was nothing to read.
Frustration began to fill him. His mind had been playing tricks. Whatever he had thought about during the night had now flown off with the Queen-tweeting-chorus of birds. Yet something in his mind told him that his nocturnal self had placed another trigger for him to use.
“Touch the letters, one by one, trace their contours.”
He wasn’t about to climb out of bed and start stroking the wall opposite his snoozing wife for fear that she may wake. He could imagine, all too well, the expression projecting from her face. “Perhaps a home for him,” he could hear her thinking. So he merely sat there, next to his still snoozing wife and imagined stroking the wall.
In a matter of seconds, the idea reappeared.