At dusk, I am as tired as the world.
The mind has other dreams to do.
The mind wants to sit in a tree, to wait for the owls.
When the owls wake up to talk to one another, I blush.
I eavesdrop on them and am ashamed.
The mind has to make up its own dreams.
When the dreams make up their minds, I sleep soundly.
When I awake, there is so much unfinished business.
The morning is always as surprised as I am.
The morning always has something more to say.
The mind is never satisfied to let dreams speak for it.
The mind insists upon its own originality.
It doesn’t know which side its bread is buttered on.
The mind knows what’s good for it, but not what’s better.