When I sleep I wind myself into the tightest, most contorted, duvet encased mess of dislocated limbs and torn out hair that each morning I am forced to spend forty five minutes digging about in the covers in order to track down my left foot, right thumb or septum - which will, inevitably, amid all my stressed out night time writhing, have worked its way inside the duvet cover and nestled itself near someone's bum, so, upon clipping it back to my face and rushing out to work, means that I must spend my day whiffing the residual trumps lurking about my nasal cavity.
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