And he speaks to me of the shadow, which follows me, precedes me, stands beside me, looms over me. The shadow that devours me when I am distracted. It holds me against its palate, caresses me with its tongue. It shatters me, unafraid of bringing seven years of bad luck upon itself. It chews me slowly, ever so slowly. It swallows me one piece at a time. One. At. A. Time.
He speaks to me of the shadow and I, who have listened, who have learned, must prove that I have understood, that I am good, that I am up to the task. I cannot disappoint him, I cannot tell the truth, I cannot tell him that my sleep is naked and mute, that it is motionless and leaves the pillow uncreased. I cannot say that I sleep with my hair loose, I must tell him of a long fox-red braid, I must tell him of the strokes of the hairbrush before going to bed. There are not a hundred, there is not even one.