— Do you suffer from insomnia? ...

— Do you suffer from insomnia? — the pharmacist asked it as casually as if he were saying, “White bread or dark?”

I nodded. At night I counted not sheep, but debts, exes, shopping lists, and stars that brazenly blinked through the window like winking neighbors.

— Then you need raindrops, — he took out a vial that looked like the tear of a cloud that had lost its passport. — You drip them onto the roof canopy and listen. Rain distracts the thoughts. Which kind would you like: spring rain, to tickle your heart with hope? Or autumn rain, so you can dramatically sigh at three in the morning?

I hesitated. Autumn rain always turned my kitchen into a theater of the absurd: the kettle whistled off-key, and the refrigerator grew philosophical.

— Take both! — the pharmacist winked conspiratorially. — For your nose we also have “Wind in Fresh Hay” spray and the fragrance “Leaves from the Deep Forest.” And if the night gets completely unruly, here are star tablets. A hundred at least — otherwise you risk waking up still an adult. And a package of darkness as a bonus — so you’ll have somewhere to hide your foolish thoughts.

I slid a bill onto the saucer, took the bag full of starry rustle and the scent of forgotten childhoods, and slipped outside.The streetlamps trembled like nervous eyelashes, and the asphalt reflected other people’s stories.

One step. A second. The world gave a small hiccup — and not from alcohol.

Suddenly I decided to turn back: to say thank you, to ask whether I could exchange the spring rain for a thunderstorm with lightning.

But the pharmacy was gone. In its place stood an old house with broken windows and a sign that read:“Once, they sold a comet here on credit. They are still looking for a guarantor.”

I stood there clutching the bag. Inside, the stars quietly argued with the rain, and the wind whispered the recipe for happiness:

“Never believe the signs. Even if they say ‘Pharmacy.’Especially if they say ‘Pharmacy.’”

And you know what’s strange?

That night, for the first time in a long while, I fell asleep easily.

Simply because the world had once again become slightly mad —and madness, as it turns out, is the best sleeping pill.