Sometimes, when I cannot fall asleep at night, I lie on top of my bed sheets and I write down a story. ​ A story of a conversation that stuck in my head like vines hang on buildings, a story of dancing with my mother, A story of a candle or a past lover. And I write until I feel tired, until my eyelids act as rope tightening around my eyeballs, and my limbs feel like floppy pieces of printer paper and all so quietly and all too suddenly, my legs are beneath heavy blankets and