In odd contrast, my dog sleeps snugly against my left leg, her breath occasionally whistling through her nose with a sound remarkably like the call of the Eastern Meadowlark. Heavy sigh, quiet snuffling like a pygmy wart hog, and the mood casts again from spring meadow to Frau Blucher's dungeon.
When dimly lit, winter night shadows are the deepest Ektachrome blue. But I can take no more, and must somehow salvage an hour or two of sleep. And so hit send, with further analogies left un-analogyzed.