Change life, rather impossible. For now. Say for now. Say as a formality. Write also impossible. Write well, say, or write, say, something else than nothing. Else than this you get me. Haha count-for-nothing. So. Think also I guess rather impossible. These days. Sleep, possible. Almost unavoidable. There is something in sleep. A bit like anger. Say your daughter, or dad, or brother, or wife, gets raped. Anger comes. Among other things. Well, say, something like that. Sleep comes. Not sure why. Sleep as if now almost the only thing. The one remaining thing. Of course dreamless what do you expect. Tsk. Or sleep like oil. You know this lovely room bathed in oil at the Saatchi gallery. Yes, something deadly, but still, almost beautiful (even if stinky). Something like a mirror. Slow and irremediable. You could imagine some excretion, both liquid and solid at the same time, or in between. The juice of sickness. Say a shrivelled figure, huddled up, seen from below. Maybe on top of stairs. And the black slime coming out, softly, pouring out slowly. Maybe you could think of what it all means, the oil, the black, the figure, the dripping holes, the room. Maybe not. As if it could stop the slime. Stop this. Or change the slime. Change this.