He's morbidly aware that there's something not quite right with his head- beyond the obvious absence of any soft tissue or brain matter and the faint rattle of that precious tone dial whenever he turns too quickly. But it's to be expected, he supposes, after spending so many lonely years wandering vacant decks, gently wiping away the dust gathering on his nakama's grinning skulls and trying not to watch the flesh shriveling and receding from his own slender bones.
While his inability to sleep still means agonizingly long and sometimes dreary nights, especially if he's the only one on watch, at least he's no longer alone. Now he spends those hours watching his new crewmates toss and turn in their bunks or rise briefly to stumble off to the bathroom, and he no longer curses his empty sockets, because he's painfully aware just how quickly things can change in a moment, a second, the blink of an eye.
He's also guiltily glad that he doesn't dream.