So here I am, at 3:40 a.m., asking you if I'm awake in your dreams, please, please, put me to sleep. It can be as normal as in a nightgown in my own bed, or lying on a loveseat with my feet hanging over the edge or as bizarre as on a giant rock in the wilds of Westeros, with a direwolf at my side. But I beg you, put me to sleep.
If you leave me eyes-wide-open in your cozy dream, I will continue to get up in the middle of the night, running the dishwasher, reading books, drinking wine, eating cherries and raspberries, deciding to cut my hair, re-stocking my pantry by size and colour of content, silently but vituperously ranting about the government, adapting all my recipes with raisins to recipes with craisins, and planning a wardrobe made up entirely of things which touch my body only at the shoulders.
Do the right thing.