He couldn’t keep his hands still.  He tried to control their motion by washing dishes, darning socks; he ran his hands through his hair, or stroked one of the thirty cats that roamed his abode.  But he couldn’t focus and so nothing was ever finished.

His legs jiggled when he sat; when he stood he danced an unending jig.  The motion interfered with his every task, and he wore a perpetually put-upon air as if mildly disgusted with himself.  He only slept when completely exhausted by uninterrupted days of restless wakefulness.

You know it’s going to be a long night when he gets that special…bulge…in his jumpsuit.

Cats sleep.