When I was a child, I slept in the corner of my room, my bed pushed all the way against the walls, pillow and blankets lining the space between to eliminate the potential of a breach. Against what, I couldn't tell you. I slept that way until I was 17. It wasn't thought-out or planned in any sense; it was instinctive. I would have questioned the way I slept no sooner than the way I breathed.
I stopped only when I no longer had a bed, or walls. Still, over the following few years, I slept in the creases between the seats and the backs of couches, or of bench seats in cars. Gradually, as I began sharing beds with other people, and as I adapted to sleep in whatever way would keep the peace, I forgot what it was that would make sleep so comfortable. I adapted, in the same way people who live near pig farms stop being able to smell the shit: by imperceptible shifts of sensory consciousness.
I didn't even realize I wasn't completely comfortable, until one day, I was.
I was completely comfortable, tucked between a pillow-lined wall, and Archer. I don't recall ever having been so at ease.
I only have one pillow on my bed at home - the one I borrowed from Archer, for its connection to him and his home. Maybe it's time for more pillows on my bed.