L.: I can’t sleep anymore. No milk and honey, no chamomile tea, no blues or ballads, no pills can help me anymore. Is there no plug for this unstoppable river of thoughts, no cure for this permanent bitter taste in my mouth?
A.: Why sleep? When the silence installs completely, there is enough time to sleep. For a whole eternity, not a third of a lifetime.
L.: I don’t crave the minimum standard, only a few minutes could put me at ease. The heaviness of my lids feels like carrying specters on.
A.: The snakes have no eyelids. So, they create the wonderful illusion their guard is never down.
L.: I don’t long for invulnerability, is too creepy, it can convince you to shed away all you intend to create, have, feel, need, do, see, touch, touch, touch…I just wish I could obey, to my will, my body. And subdue to stillness my infinite mental moods. Such rebellious thirds of self! Only the spirit, with its suave ambitions, sets me free, for junctures, of the entire burden. But its liberty is so questionable when you can be awoken from every single reverie!
A.: Well, the last sleep might be as ethereal as a dream.
J.: Futile! When the consciousness can’t perceive anymore, there is nothing pleasurable left to sense.
L.: I just wish I could access again myself, that’s all.