How does the body plead---wounded as it is from all its battles with the world---to the god of sleep?
Does it simply have to close its eyes and let the darkness flood the skin's interior like the water that closes---oh so gently---above the head of a drowning child?
Or does it need to fumble and tumble, to shout if it can until it is once again so tired and beaten it can choose to die?
If there, the body's slowly sinking into that soundless depth of sleep, how can you pull it further down to a flicker of headlight or the sob of a faucet can't send it rushing back to the surface, with all the weight of defeat?
What is the opposite side of 3:30 in the morning?
How many sheep have broken through the fence and tumbled straight into sightlessness?
What color does the sky have when a strand of sunlight is snatched into its unraveling fabric and all the stars are dipping?
What right do you have sleeping so peacefully like that beside me when I have flipped my pillow ten thousand times?
by Carlomar Arcangel Daoana