The men from the bank are here at the door, I let them in, it is freezing outside. There is so much snow that my view of their car must have been obscured for the entire street seemed empty.
They have been observing you, insomniac, they say. You’ve been racking up quite the sleep debt, they say. I don’t understand them.
I try to shake their hands, but they refuse politely.
You come down the stairs a bit like a zombie, Atlantis eyes sunk deep into your skull. They present you the figures; you understand, you say, you fall asleep.