I’m lying in bed,
listening to the radio,
scrawling on electronic paper,
with a thousand things in my head
I wish I couldn’t remember.
I feel like a thousand tiny legs
crawling on my arms and face.
Some creatures’ wings flap against my skin
rapidly, flutteringly, like wet whispers.
I wish I could run away
to somewhere else far away,
and come back again
when all is over and settled.
My new book will be released at midnight, and I’m agitated to the point I cannot function. The previous book was such a hit. I don’t think I can’t deal with it if this one flops. I told myself not to have high expectations. It seemed to work at first, but then when the time comes, it doesn’t really work.