Dear novel: I woke up in the morning with the crowing of the roosters and with an urgency, that of continuing to sleep, but I told myself that it was in vain, because just as you cannot go in search of writing, but let writing find you, neither can you go in search of sleep, and that goes to lovers as well. Those of us who worry about lack of sleep have ingrained tiredness, which naturally derives from little sleep, but also from worry itself, and so we consume ourselves, as an Uroboros of wakefulness. I wake up thinking about sleeping when I should actually stop thinking about it and sit down to write it, so that sleep follows me and that, once he and I arrive in the world of the living - having mocked my orphic impatience -, it finally reaches me. That's why I'm writing to you, novel.

[...]

I yawn and cover myself a little; but not my arms, dear novel, I need them outside the blanket to keep on writing to you. Another yawn. Outside, the roosters. Birds can also be heard, a sign that the announced evil, the light, is imminent, a sign that the concern about falling asleep again will become more intense, a sign that I will no longer sleep. I wrote a little more than a sheet of paper, and I no longer know if it is correct to say "little more than" or "little more that". May have the answer the roosters or the crickets, which are also heard, because it is not quite dark and not quite light, but that thing so unconnected to what is consolidated is the continuous change. It is 6:00 a.m. on one of the few remaining summer days, and thinking about all this, writing it, and not falling asleep would have taken me a total of an hour. And I am moved because that verbal phrase reflects the magic of language, the intrusion of the past into the future, or that of the singing of the crickets at the dawn of the day, and that of the roosters, in the death of the night.

Dear novel: I woke up at dawn with the roosters' crow and with an urgency to continue sleeping, but I told myself that it was in vain, just as one can’t go searching for the art of writing, but rather let the art of writing come find them, neither can one go in search of sleep, and the same goes for lovers. Those of us who worry about the little sleep we are getting have ingrained fatigue, the kind that comes naturally from lack of sleep but also from worry itself, and so we consume ourselves like ouroboros of sleeplessness. I wake up thinking of sleep when really I should stop thinking and instead write it down, so that sleep doesn’t break my stride. And once him and I have returned among the living - I, having mocked my Orphic impatience - have it suffice me at last. That’s why I’m writing to you, novel.

[...]

I yawn and cover myself a little; but not the arms, dear novel, I need them outside the blanket so that I can continue writing to you. Another yawn. Outside, the roosters. The birds can also be heard, a sign that declared evil, light, is imminent, a sign that the solicitude to fall back asleep will intensify, a sign that I will no longer be sleeping. I wrote a bit more than a page and I no longer know if “a little bit more of” or ”a little bit more than” is the correct way to say it. Maybe the roosters will have the answer, or the crickets, which can also be heard, because it’s not daylight yet, but it’s not completely night either, rather it is the thing far removed from the concrete, it is the “yet to come”. It’s 6:00 o’clock on one of the few days left of summer, and the thought of all of this, the writing and not being asleep, will have taken me exactly an hour, and I am touched, because in that verbal phase the magic of the language is depicted, the intrusion of the past into the future, or the crickets’ chirp into the dawn of day, and that of the roosters in the dead of the night.

Dear novel, I woke up early in the morning to the roosters’ song. I felt an urgency to continue sleeping, but I told myself it'd be in vain. For, just as you cannot go seeking things to write, but rather you must let them find you, you cannot go seeking sleep either. The same goes for lovers. Those of us who worry about poor sleep have deep-rooted tiredness, which, naturally, derives from not only little sleep but also from preoccupation itself. We thus consume ourselves like insomnolent ouroboroses. I wake up thinking of sleeping when I really should stop thinking about it and sit down to write so that sleep doesn’t catch up with me, and that once sleep and I finally make it to the world of the living, it finally does. That is why I write you, novel.

[...]

I yawn and cover myself a little. I don’t cover my arms, dear novel: I need them outside the blanket so I can continue writing you. Another yawn. Outside are the roosters. The birds have also begun to sing, which is a sign that the evil foretold, light, is upon us; a sign that I will become more worried about falling back asleep; a sign that I will sleep no more. I have written a little over a page and I no longer know if it’s right to say “a little over” or “little more than.” Perhaps the roosters have the answer, or perhaps the crickets, who are also singing, for it is still not day, nor is it completely night, but rather that thing such astray from the norm that is change. It is 6:00 on one of the last days of summer and I have spent an hour thinking about all of this, writing, and not sleeping. And I’m moved because in that phrase is the magic of language: the interference of the past in the future, or the interference of the crickets’ song in the break of day and the roosters’ song in the death of the night.

Dear novel,

I awoke at dawn to the sound of roosters crowing, and with a tenacity to continue sleeping. But I told myself that it was in vain, that just as one cannot go in search of writing but let the writing find you, one cannot go in search of sleep either, and the same goes for lovers.

Those of us who worry about lack of sleep have inherent fatigue, the kind that naturally derives from getting little sleep, but also from worry itself, and thus becomes an all-consuming obsession that defines us, like The Sleepless Ouroboros. I wake up thinking about sleeping, when in reality, I should stop thinking about it and sit down to write about it, so that sleep doesn't get cast aside and that, once sleep and I arrive in the world of the living — having mocked my Orphic impatience — it at last catches up with me. That's why I write to you, novel.

[...]

I yawn and cover myself up a little. Not my arms however, dear novel, as I need them outside the blanket to be able to continue writing to you. Another yawn. Outside, the roosters crowing. The birds are also debuting their performance, a sign that the anticipated evil, the light, is imminent. A sign that the concern to fall asleep again will become more intense, a sign that I will no longer sleep.

I wrote a little more than one page, and I no longer know if it is correct to say, "a little more than" or "a little more to". Perhaps the answer lies with the roosters, or with the crickets, which are also striking their chorus, because it is not yet day, but it is not completely night either. But rather that thing so far removed from the consolidated that it is hard to define. It’s 6:00 am on one of the few days that summer has left, and thinking about all this, writing it down and not falling asleep will have taken me an hour in total. I am moved, because in that verbal phrase the magic of language is embodied- the intrusion of the past into the future, or that of the crickets singing at the dawn of day, and that of the roosters, heralding in the death of night.

Dear novel: I woke up at daybreak to the roosters’ crowing and with an urge--to continue sleeping--but I told myself that it was in vain, that just as you can't go looking for writing but you can let writing find you, so you can't go looking for sleep, and that the same holds for lovers. We who worry about our lack of sleep have exhaustion ingrained, an exhaustion that naturally comes from barely sleeping, but also from worry itself, so that we consume ourselves like uroboros of sleeplessness. I wake up thinking of sleep, when in fact I should leave off thinking and sit down to write about it, so that sleep doesn't fall off my pace and, once sleep and I reach the world of the living--I having dodged my Orphic impatience--it at last catches me. That's why I'm writing you, novel.

[...]

I yawn and cover myself up a bit--not the arms, dear novel, I need those outside the blanket to be able to continue writing you. Another yawn. Outside, the roosters. The birds also become audible, a sign that the unwelcome guest, the light, is looming, a sign that my worry about going back to sleep will intensify, a sign that I won't sleep anymore. I wrote hardly more than a page and I no longer know if it's correct to say “hardly more” or “barely more”. Perhaps the roosters have the answer, or the crickets, which can also be heard because it's not yet daytime, yet it's not completely nighttime either, but that thing so foreign to solidity that is becoming. It's 6:00 on one of the few remaining days of summer, and thinking about all of this, writing about it and not sleeping, is going to have taken me a total of one hour. I'm touched because that verb phrase embodies the magic of language, the past’s impinging on the future, or the cricket's chirp on the daybreak and the rooster's crow on the death of the night.

Dear novel: I was awakened at dawn by the chorus of cockerels and what I knew was a vain impulse to get back to sleep. Just as it is impossible to conjure up writing, neither can you summon sleep or lovers for that matter. Naturally, the more we obsess about sleep deprivation the more tired we become.
Just like an ouroboro, we are consumed by anxiety as we observe our own wakefulness. I desperately think of sleep when I should actually stop thinking and start writing. Unlike Orpheus, I must despatch my impatience so fatigue no longer gets in the way. I settle myself. That’s why I am now writing to you, dear novel.
I yawn, covering myself up a little. Not my arms, dear novel, those I need outside the blanket to continue writing to you. Another yawn. Outside, the crowing cockerels. The birds are also beginning to sing, auguring the dawning of light and the intensification of angst surrounding my need to sleep as well as my growing awareness of its unattainability.
I wrote a little over a page and I no longer know if it sounds better to say a little over or little more than. Perhaps the cockerels have the answer, or the crickets which too can be heard, because it is still neither daylight nor completely night, but that peculiar state of being between; the future.
It is 6:00 am on one of the few remaining days of summer, and all this thinking, writing and not falling asleep will have taken me an hour in total. This magical language describing the blending of past and future really moves me, as does the singing crickets at dawn, and cockerels, in the dead of night.