And so when I go to sleep tonight I'll put my dreams on hold and strip them bare. I'll pull my blanket over my eyes and hope they won't find me. I hope they won't come and tear my blanket away and leave me shivering in the music-less night. I'll hope they won't take my belongings and scream with their eyes. I'll hope they won't give me the inevitable blood-draining news: That I'm just a ghost now That my past is dead That nothing belongs to me anymore That I was living in falseness That tomorrow I should take my wife and children and start living in parking lots. That the millions I invested have crumbled to dust. That my past was a lie That my present and future are incompatible. That my family will have to beg to exist. That we have nothing to call our own. That our private lives have become public objects. That I won't be able to hug my children in a few quiet moments of solitude. That from now on, whenever I have to make love, I'll ...