When I was a child I made up various mental paths to fall asleep, to help myself with the actual fall. As if the fall into something, dreams, daytime habits or merely madness was always necessary. But sometimes, that cliff before falling could rather unfold to a staircase, going up or just further away. The view is no longer different shades of darkness accompanied by mental or bodily itching. Instead other images and words come flooding, and the only reasonable thing to do could be to get up and write that poem that just cracks its skull to the inner walls for the urge to break free. Almost like a medusa growing til it lifts the roof off and in which it is possible to speak in a different language, with a different tongue about something else or something more. These poems are perhaps held by the night itself and may be released in the instant that you recall that you do not lay there in bed to die. You might have a dazzling will to live, just in a different way than the one that makes you die a little more each day. For me, that feeling is unbound. That feeling is an old woman in a lighthouse staring at the skiffs tearing loose. She smiles as she floats away with them in her mind and the moon lets her. It sees her and says nothing, it is almost like a secret commitment. So, if someone interferes, it could happen that you hear this old woman shout in despair: Let her be, don’t bind us to a human will.