I haven't slept properly for so many days. Door bolted shut, phone on silent, laptop switched off— I haven't slept for so many, many days.
What am I afraid of? Thieves? What do thieves take, besides money, gold, and furniture? Let them take it all—let thieves come, let anyone come and take it. What I have lost, no one knows, and I won't let them know either. How can I spew out so much poison?
I need a holiday. One, two, three... I need to spend my accumulated leave and run away. All those afternoon naps I deposited in the bank of sleep—someone bring me at least one night's rest as interest. I promise, if I can sleep one night, I'll sell everything, even myself.
These eyes are terribly tired—don't ask them to stay awake anymore. They're not asking for rice, not asking for air conditioning, not asking for security; they only want two handfuls of sleep. These weary eyes dreamed again today in drowsiness, saw all the poetry hidden in the depths of human eyes, but today they're so tired themselves they can't write two lines about others' exhaustion.
O people, forgive this small man's transgression. You never let him know when he became so sleep-starved, so weak inside.
Forgive this weariness. Two handfuls of sleep, a plateful of sleep, cupped palms full of sleep; or else just a little bit of sleep; whatever it is, stand beside this man in his fight to find rest.
I promise, if somehow I survive this journey, I will become a story. I won't be poetry anymore... I swear to God!