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Your breath becomes slower and deeper. A twitch, a gentle movement, the curling of your fist. You are sound asleep and I watch the dreams flicker across your face. You are peaceful and beautiful.

Then a breath too deep, too loud, too rasping. And another. You're oblivious and sleep on regardless. I leave you for a second, then two, and realise you're not going to stop. You've settled in to your measured snore, and won't stop until something drastic happens.

I know the routine: I'll try and roll you over but you won't budge, heavy with alcohol and sleep. I'll talk to you, and you'll talk back, but won't wake up enough to move off your damn back.

The snoring is getting louder in defiance to my protestations. I know I can't sleep with the old warthog ripping through the silence next to me. It's like a steam train crossed with a cement mixer crossed with a cranky old bear. It is, my dear, you, after a big night out.

Would you just fucking roll over? Or put a sock in it? Please. Jesus, I'm trying to sleep too. And that's just when the snoring begins...

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