What about those empty hours of the night, when you wake up, tense, between two breaths and two dreams, between two rounds of a game that is repeated and never won?
Insomnia, short, transient or persistent and endless, shines a light on the psychopathic work of the brain, a tireless library rat who not only reads the information received, but gulps it down, erects volcanoes of meaning, is too drunk to walk well and also force-fed to understand it.
Despite the apparent order of my days and the harsh need to live, it seems to me that I can hear, even when awake, the savory step of those nights, in which only sleep can really speak.
I still have to dig grooves of inspiration on this cold Iceland, to hold the pickaxe of labour firmly. Silently fight discouragement. The wait can be long. Well, why don’t you sing? All in all, every melody is a cry, a complaint, a victory.