Rest

He lives at 100 miles an hour.

So when he stops. He really stops. When your little body says you have to sleep, you sleep.

I remember being part of a house building team in the slums of Tijuana, Mexico. We'd spend all day digging earth, mixing concrete slab, hammering nails, painting walls.

We'd crawl into our sleeping bags at night,
on a concrete floor,
and collapse into the best sleep ever.

It was a "good" sort of exhaustion. None of this mind-whirling-too-much-stress-and-caffeine-to-sleep-nonsense. No counting sheep.

I might take a leaf out of his little book.