Musicians joke about everything eventually. Missed notes. Terrible hotels. Death. For most of his life Marlon thought insomnia was just inconvenience. A bad night’s sleep before a concert. Then one winter the jokes stopped working. Three nights with almost no sleep. On the morning of the fourth he looked into the bathroom mirror and had the sensation someone borrowed his face. His thoughts strangely loud. He became convinced that if sleep did not return, neither would he. The certainty was the frightening thing.

He was convinced his heart was wearing out, his brain dissolving. At three in the morning every sensation suggests disaster. Dawn merely postponed the trial until the following night. Friends tried to reassure him.

“You’ll sleep eventually.”

They meant well. But advice from people who can sleep is like financial guidance from lottery winners. During one especially desperate week he sat at the piano. It was four-thirty in the morning. His fingers disconnected from intention. He played one note every thirty seconds. One note. Wait. Another. The silence between the notes became more interesting than the notes themselves. Insomnia stripped away the ability to pretend.

Months later the insomnia eased. It simply wandered off in search of someone else. He resumed touring. Audiences noticed something changed. His tempos less hurried. His ballads with longer pauses. People often said the quiet moments moved them most. They assumed it was maturity. He knew better. When a young songwriter asked where his sense of space came from. Marlon smiled.

“Three o’clock in the morning.”