III
Even administrators must rest. Observe the scene of me asleep, upside down, unfolded like a complicated letter. People laugh when they see me like this, but I assure you, nothing is comic here—it is anatomy, nothing more.
Sleep for a dog is not idleness but maintenance: dreams defragment the day, arrange the bones in alphabetical order, and remove the unnecessary sorrow that accumulates from being forbidden to chase the vacuum cleaner. The paws twitch, yes, but they are not chasing rabbits—those belong to literature. In reality I am recalculating routes, rebalancing loyalties, revising the eternal question of whether the postman is enemy or ally.
When I wake, the world is again acceptable: sofas where I left them, humans still susceptible to my arguments, and breakfast a philosophical certainty. The sun lies on the tiles like a fat pensioner on a bench, immovable and faintly offensive. I stretch, yawn, and think: another day of small responsibilities, great ambitions, and incomprehensible rules written by men.
