That was a nap that makes the other naps whistle a low da-a-a-mn. That was a nap of stygian oblivion. A state of perfect matte blackness from which you awaken unsure whether tomorrow has eclipsed today. That was a nap that bulleted past with all but its wingtips tucked and obliterated your little sparrow of consciousness in such a blinding explosion of feathers and talons that you didn't have time to whimper. That, my friends, was a nap. Damn.
epiphenita acquiesces to her sleep disorder with daily medication but celebrates a good nap in defiance.