Rafa’s specter, as energetic as the man himself, or my subconscious turned up the multi-colored neon tunnels behind my eyelids to max wattage: no sleep. In these radiant tunnels Altra Luna became Napata Nea. Dan Flavin might have known what to do with this but I did not. I rearranged myself horizontally seven times, at least, to no avail.
Shortly before 5am I leapt up, curious to find out if Nadal was using Djokovic as a human pap smear. It was all over already. Instead an early morning blast of meaningless LED rays. Dilated, I returned to my jungle of flaming neon, a playground for sleepless Na’Vis.
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