I can’t sleep. How could I, when seas of monsters churn behind my eyes, when Azkaban rattles its chains in my thoughts, when Hawkins claws at the fragile edge of imagination? The world is huge and I keep poking it with curiosity, like a kid with a stick and a question. There’s a secret place in my brain and I’m the only one with the key. I lose it sometimes, but it always comes back. I live for the fantasy of it all. Not because I want to escape life, but because fantasy teaches me how to look at it. The way Percy looks at Annabeth like the world finally makes sense because someone bothered to notice it. There may be no magic, no monsters, no spells, but life still grabs you by the ankles, turns you upside down, shakes the breath out of you, and suddenly you’re whispering expecto patronum just to see if it works. Sometimes it does.