The wind is literally howling outside my windows.  It's rattling the screens.  It's a lonely sound - a cold, gray sound.  It's what I imagine Wuthering Heights sounded like.

I love that sound.  It's primal and familiar and comforting.  The rolling roar that blots out the barking and the traffic and the hum of the city.

It lulls me, even though I want to stay awake and listen.  And I want to listen because it lulls me.

I used to occasionally sleep on a sailboat in the Pacific Ocean.  One night, moored in Isthmus Cove on Catalina, there was a storm.  The wind blew so hard that it felt like the boat might take flight.  I was still a professional insomniac back then, but that night I slept like the dead, snuggled into the belly of the boat, listening to the wind pummel the world.