Sometimes I am strangled by sleep, as if I prefer the world of my own imagination more than the world of coffee and cigarettes and staring out of the windows of trains.
Last night I slept for 16 hours, and when I woke up, everything had changed. My dreams moved me and shook me and made me understand what he said to me about his dream, and now I too know the black moth of doom that flutters in his ribcage.
And the absolute, secret mess I have made inside my head, and the happy ending that is only possible with my eyes closed and the world gone
