When I swim, I know that I will also sleep, because when I spend a day simply on the dry earth, it is hard to cross the border into sleep. It’s as if the water is a step toward sleep: even if I swim early in the morning, I carry that swim with me through the day. A delirium writes its name with the manuscription of hands and water never forgets this slip-road, the answer to the question of how we can move in the thickness of our hides. Tilt my head, hours later: water spills. I am ready to slip like a seal into the forms of water. The thrown stone tilts downwards. When it lands, sleep will be found, or founder.