I was thinking books are weightless. I mean, they float upon the understanding.
Upon memory. Or even better: they are steady because they are not people.
They have no nights, no insomnia. They have no sleep in them.

I was thinking books are less complicated than us. Even when
we run out of a line, of a word. Even when
we can't quite breathe. When I thought about that
I had a vague notion of entitlement.

And a pale breath wishing to be a page.

Translated by Ana Hudson, 2011