I'm in the rocker again, and this time everything is wrong. The flute raga has become insane clown music, and somewhere beneath my chair is a mighty axle upon which the house rotates forward. I've got no bearings, no identity, and no idea what the fuck is happening. Everything in the room is blooming brightly colored triangles which displace forward and cascade like a cubist rendition of puke, and an immense force is grinding me to the front and down. I sense that the room behind me is soon to replace this one.
Somehow I manage not to jump out of my chair or scream. Those inhibitions were strongly ingrained during a 30-minute insight meditation session before smoking a tiny dose, but in this state I have no language. Still, I'm holding on to the handrails and making gutteral noises of resistance--I know I'm not supposed to move or yell, but don't understand what these things mean.
Then I notice some of the triangles are in fact a lamp, and as I focus on this familiar appliance everything settles quickly. The music is again sedate and relaxing, the force is gone, the room tidy.
And again I slept a full night through. I'll take temporary insanity as a cure for insomnia, which produces longer bouts of same.