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  • I am always a foreigner in a country named Sleep.

    Sometimes it doesn’t accept me through its borders regardless of how hard I try. I must wait forever at border zone, like a long-term refugee in a camp. Red-eyed, tired, desperate to reach my land of dreams, a paradise which I have only heard distant stories of.

    Sometimes I’m accepted inside. First I feel hilarious, then I notice that no one understands fully my speech in my new home country. Streets lead nowhere, chairs and tables and doors change their places in the rooms at the same moment I turn around and blink my eyes.

    People’s appearances change, familiar faces transform and have beaks of falcons or ears of donkeys. When I venture outside, a sweet playgroup of babies suddenly turns to mob hungry for blood, they chase me down the alley and beat me to black and blue bruises with their rattles. If I manage to escape and reach the safe zone, the police station, to report an offence, a policeman inside asks me to fill a 50-page form in Babylonian cuneiform.

    I am always a foreigner in a country named Sleep. Whether I’m outside or inside. Paperless immigrant, stranger in a strange land.

    Grandma used to comfort light sleepers: “Do not worry. Death fixes sleep debts.”
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