Paul the Insomniac

Disgusted, he tossed the blankets off his body and crawled back up out of bed, pausing briefly to put on a pair of shorts before making his way tiredly down the hall. Paul was not a guy that had trouble sleeping. Ever. Yet here he was, for the third time tonight, getting back up, sitting down in front of the television, and waiting for the tiredness to envelope his mind. This had never been a problem for him in the past, but with the recent death of his wife, it seemed as though sleep would never come.
He clicked through the channels slowly, all one hundred and eighty of them, pausing on those which he remembered were his wife's favorites. It all seemed so distant now. He recalled sitting with her while she watched her shows, how she would curl up at the end of the couch and pull the red and white blanket up to her chin. How she looked so caught up in the movie, so enthralled by the action, how she would respond so vehemently to the actors doing something she didn't agree with. How many times had he felt her get out of bed in the middle of the night, only to hear the sound of the television a few moments later? How many times had she sat up late into the night clicking this remote just as he was doing now?
“Oh, what’s the use,” he thought as he stretched out on the couch, hoping for sleep to come grab him.
As he lay there, Paul thought about his wife again. The way she looked as he held her hand lovingly, as she passed from this earth. The way her breathing next to him no longer lulled him to sleep. How quiet it had become when he lay down in bed. Since her death, it seemed that sleep would never come. Oh sure, often it settled on his brain--like a flock of birds coming to rest, but it was always shooed away. His mind was a whirlwhind, with thoughts flickering and ideas bouncing up and down and striking all four walls of his mind, unable to stop. So they bounced. Each idea. Each thought. And as they wore thin and muffled, they were replaced by new thoughts. New ideas. More bouncing. No peace. No rest.
This was a guy that could sleep on anything, anywhere. He had slept on concrete floors before, in cars, on friends’ couches, in the woods. Paul had triumphed over crying babies, howling wolves, noisy neighbors, bitching women, lustful roommates -- he was able to completely block all of these things out when Mr. Sandman came knocking. Sleep was inevitable, and he always welcomed it willingly. Yet here he was. Lost in the hours of darkness, seeking the god of sleep who was currently missing in action.
He had even taken a couple of sleeping pills his wife had left in the medicine cabinet, but that didn’t help. Warm milk. Had read a chapter or two of Dickens. But nothing seemed to do the trick. Frustrated, Paul wandered back down the hall, slipped his shorts back off and climbed back into bed. Hours seemed to pass as he first looked directly at the ceiling, then turning this way and that until finally his eyes settled upon the spot from where his wife’s gentle breathing used to emanate. Crying, he cuddled up on her side of the bed, and placed his arm around her, never disturbing the pillow he had left covering her face just a few hours before.

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I have done some serious revision on this, but it still seems to lack a bit of flow in places. Any criticism would be most appreciated. It seems to lack the easy rhythm I would like. Maybe a bit disjointed.