I love to go to sleep, br When bed takes me like a lover br wrapping my limbs in br cool linen, soothing br the fretfulness br of day glaring like br the Cyclops' eye br in a forehead br of furrows. br br But I wake br always reluctantly, brushing br the dreamcrumbs br from my lids, br walking sideways underwater br like a crab br spilling coffee, br knocking the mug br to the floor br where it shatters br in a muddy river br to my continuo of br 'Shit, shit, shit!' br br What if death br is only a forgetting br to wake in the morning, br a dream that goes on br into other corridors, br other chambers br draped with other silks, br libraries of unwritten books br whose caleidoscopic pages br can be read br only by the pinneal eye, br music that can only be heard br by the seventh sense br or the eighth or ninth, br until we possess br an infinity of senses- br none of them br dependent on flesh? br br What if our love of sleep br is only a foretaste br of the bliss that awaits us br when we do not have to wake again? br br What frightens us so br about falling? br To dropp the body and fly br should be as natural br as drifting into a dream. br But we are insomniacs br tossing on soaked sheets, br hanging on br to our intricate pain br while God with her sweet br Mona Lisa smile br sings lullabyes br the ears of the living br cannot hear.