I'm in a city of my own creation. The populace is out in the streets, milling, marching. Is it a banquet, somebody's wedding reception? The city is built against the sea; the wind smells of salt and tar, fish scales and algae.
But night is falling, and the mobs of interesting people are all succumbing to demonic possession. It occurs whenever one of them falls asleep, and there’s a sort of peer pressure to do so, to join the lost-soul majority. Hence the whole population, as it tramps about, is chanting with a kind of military imperative: "Sleep-y-time! Sleepy-y-time!"
I can assume this sort of thing will only get scarier in the days ahead, as I near the end of Book II.