The thin sleep of dogs is finest. I see them summoned
to the floor, serenely sifting the dunes of sleep. Whereas I,
I produce insomnia like a factory line: hour by hour, night
by night. It is the metallurgy of something that can’t be
welded, me and the furnace of my deceits, of my
losses. I’d postulate that every man, overcoming his fear
of excommunication, should hand his body over
to indiscretion. His body prowling the world. Overturning
everything, sniffing like a dog the absurd flower of pleasure.