Harold, you recall, is the boy in the pajamas who wielded a mighty purple crayon. Wherever he decided to go he did so by drawing the destination with his crayon. Need a moon for light to walk by? Harold drew it. Along with the path. And, well, everything else he needed. The sleepless lad was restricted only by his imagination. And a purple writing instrument.
Like Harold, I find myself unable to sleep lately and wish for a crayon. Of any color, frankly. I don't care. Lying awake, filled with ideas and thoughts, I wish I could at least tread the dark hours with Harold's crayon. I would not draw a moon or a path or stars or a house. I would not go on an adventure. I would draw the things that keep me awake, and then - true to a child's form - blot them all out with the long side of the crayon in one spectacular swath.