The waking hours take their toll and the night provides little relief, reports Debbie Porteous from Christchurch.
Sleep is not an attractive prospect in a city where buildings have become tombs.
Less so when the earth will not be still.
The mind is not prepared to co-operate with the body's call for rest. It picks over realities: "They said there wouldn't be another big one ... could they be wrong again?".
One goes to bed without the comforting rituals that usually accompany day's end. Instead, it has been a case of stumbling around the house by candlelight, concerned not to use too much precious bottled water to brush teeth or wash. The water may have to last some time.
It is also likely there has been some stumbling around outside, accompanied by a tiny circle of light by which to use nature's toilet.
Digging a hole is all very well for the manly sorts.
Finally under the covers, the body does not relax but, rather, remains tense - anticipating what must come. You hope that sleep will take you away, but it seems impossible.
And when the rumbling starts, any hope of sleep evaporates.
It is too easy to imagine giant pieces of the earth grinding against each other and dropping into place.
In the silence of the night, the dreadful noise is an even ruder herald of what is about to happen.
The strength and the frequency of the aftershocks remains incredible.
It seems the building has only just stopped rocking when the rumble starts again.
Sometimes, there is only a crack before the bed shudders.
Our wooden building seems to flex and sway with the movement; somehow, flexibility in a building is reassuring.
There is not much sleeping going on.
It is a matter of lying and waiting for the next shake, and wishing the world would hurry up and turn again, so then at least being awake will be normal.
