Its late Wednesday night; in the morning, they will come. The ones who disrupt your peaceful slumber twice a week are at least regular in their schedule.
They come in the small hours of the morning, riding in their monstrous ship adorned with flashing yellow lights. You can never see anyone inside- the floodlights on the front prevent you from seeing all but the most basic outline of their hauntingly human forms.
They do not come out. They do not try to contact you. Their ship reaches out with its great arms, locking on to the dumpster you sleep behind. The dissonant clang of steel on steel pierces your ears and the dumpster is lifted into the air, shaken violently as an underpaid babysitter might shake a petulant child, and thrown back to the ground like a professional wrestler's body slam.
No man could sleep through such a disquieting display of raw power.
Tonight, you will not sleep. Seated comfortably (compared to your usual concert perches in the back alleys of the city) in a salvaged fold-out chair, you wait patiently for them.
It has to end. You don't drink yourself to sleep behind the pharmacy to be woken up before dawn.