سحر يا شب، غروب. ميم با ياد نمى آورد كه نيمشب خسرو مى آيد، برزو مى آيد با آنسيم. يك پچ و پچ طولانى با آهمت. بعد بيدارى البرز البرز. بعد بيدارى مادر قشنگ كه خواب گربه دارد. ميم با ياد نمى آورد كه مادر قشنگ هرچه گوش‏ مى شود هيچ نمى فهمد. فهميدن يك زن _ فرق نمى كند كدام _ يعنى فهميدن عالم. براى همين هم پچ و پچ  آمد توى  عالم (عجب). ميم رفت و آمد ها را با ياد نمى آورد. ميم نيمشب را كه پندارى روز است با بايد نمى آورد. با ياد نمى آورد كه البرز البرز با برزو و خسرو سوار بر مى گردند. ميم نمى شنود و نمى بيند كه آهمت و ويس‏ و مادر قشنگ سحر نشده هنوز، آماده ى كوچ مى شوند. ميم صداى پاها را مى شنود اما با ياد نمى آورد. پندارى مادر بزرگ دارد براى ميم داستان مى گويد كه بخوابد. پندارى ميم خواب داستان هاى مادر بزرگ را مى بيند، به همين نزديكى و با همين دورى. داستان بعض‏ وقت ها كه خواب نمى آورد، بيدار نگه مى داشت. اما اين بار خواب روى خواب. براى ميم آرامش‏ است حالا. روزهاى درد را انگار پشت سر گذاشته. حتى دندان قروچه نمى كند. حالا، خواب از اين پهلو به آن پهلو _ حالا كه كوچك وكلان همه بيدار مى شوند، بى موقع _ حتى نيست. روى غضروف است ميم كه سر گذاشته، شانه گذاشته. بى كه نگاه كند اين زبان سياه نيست به اين طولانى، كه مى ترساند. اين گيسوى كوكب است كه خطى تاريك روى صورت ميم كشيده براى شفا. گرم تن جوان باكره، فقط براى رشد، براى تبرك در خواب حتى، خواب كوچ، سحرى.

Our acquaintance began in a used bookstore, which had recently opened; we were interested in the same book. And, I believe, our acquaintance was my fault. Something in his face did not correspond to the book, a volume of poetry, he wanted. This contradiction made me want to speak with him. Yet his face could have been that of a killer. No, not his face, his eyes, they had a poison that, clearly, is the sourcelight of murder. How I came to that, I don’t know; but when he looked at me and said, you saw the book first, it’s yours, it struck me. I mean, instead of being pleased with his generosity I was terrified from his tone of voice and his gaze. To be exact, when he looked at me a sharp pain shot throughout my spine. He understood immediately since he took off his tinted glasses (which, I could see, were readers he did need because the book’s title had large print). In reply to his offer I said, I was looking for this title only out of curiosity, it’s yours. You are just being polite, he said, in these days poetry and poets have no value and one who reads poetry is not interested in amusement; the book is yours, let’s ask if they have more copies, but if they don’t let me borrow it so I can make a copy; then I’ll return it. He seemed to speak earnestly, but then I realized his gentle tone was a ruse to convince me that we both belonged to the same world in which “poetry must be shared.” And this, did not match his eyes that warned: say a word to the contrary and I’ll cut your throat. I wanted to leave immediately, but I realized it was impossible; he’d find me. Although the store was crowded, it seemed that in that huge place there were only the two of us. Since I had no choice, I accepted. We went to one of the young clerks and inquired if they had another volume and he replied, I can’t look now; give me your number and I’ll call you. I value my privacy so how could I give out my phone number? I began to stutter.