WAKING UP
The time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.

Jag vill gå ut mitt i natten, barfota
Jag vill springa ner till havet
Falla ner i vattnet
Sen vill jag vakna

Ingen badar i mitten av november
Det gör bara jag