Sometimes I have the same dream over and over again,
as if a turntable needle were stuck in the groove of a broken record
that would otherwise be an uneventful night. It wakes me up eventually,
and more often than not, I cannot get back to sleep.
Since tossing and turning makes no more sense than getting out of bed,
I choose the latter, and, trying to avoid the usual squeaky floor concerto,
I walk over to my desk.
To prevent the neighbours’ wrath, I’d rather not touch the typewriter
and settle for my good old friend, the fountain pen—or I would
in the pre-digital era, but sitting in front of a computer screen
doesn’t sound as romantic.
You see, it is all about keeping up the appearance of an artistic vibe.
After all, we are all occasional imposters.
hidden pilcrow 