We caught a sleeping sheep. He was not moving, and therefore was easy to catch. As a matter of fact, we didn’t literally catch him, we just caught him being in the mähster bed. Motionless. Wide awake, while he was supposed to be asleep. After all, he was a sleeping sheep.

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As we got closer we saw him better. This sheep was sleep deprived. Eyes half open. Or half shut, depending on the angle you looked at him. Either way he looked like crap. He was so tired that his mind wandered off during his talk with us. It was as if he was surprised that all of this was revolving around him. After all, he was supposed to be asleep!

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‘I got some weird things to tell you, Potamotrygorgeous. These things just come into mind when you are awake long enough.’

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‘History is written by the victors,’ he said. ‘No matter how much you translate it in Google Translate. From English to Arabic, and from there to German, on to Bulgarian and then to Dutch. This is because it’s a fact: history is written by the victors.’

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‘Think about it.. Well, I have been thinking about it, for a couple of days now. It keeps me up at night even.’

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McSleepy snuggled up in our duvet some more. We felt so blessed with this duvet. It was a gift from somesheep special. How can you be ‘around’ when you’re not around? By giving a duvet as a present. We can always duck under these motherly covers and shelter from emotional storms. McSleepy knew this as well. Still he couldn’t catch any shut eye. Perhaps we should have given him a reason to sleep. Or a duvet for his own?

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‘Turn it around, if you will,’ McSleepy continued.

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‘Turn everything around, if that’s even possible, and ask yourself where do thoughts go if they die? And if you deny something, aren’t you just in denial? How will you know the truth then? The horror, oh the horror, of the effect of writing, Potamotrygorgeous! I don’t understand how you can sleep at night!’

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‘Writing turns a fleeting thought into a fact,’ McSleepy continued. ‘A fact of history. Would that mean that writing makes me the victor? I mean, why can’t things be as a matter of fiction?’

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There it was. He said it. As a matter of fiction. He said it. It might not even have happened, but now it’s here, in print, imprinted. We understood why this sheep was awake so often.

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‘You don’t even need to put it into words or ink, Potamotrygorgeous.. even if you imagine how an event might have happened, and you do this long enough, it is starting to feel real to you.’

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‘There is even a word for that, it’s called imagination inflatation. That sure is the world upside down, isn’t it? Believing is seeing! Now do you understand that I can’t sleep?’

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We sure understood. And by this time we were wide awake too. But we knew that four sheep would come to shush us, because by this time we were confused as well. And this sheep wasn’t going to shut up any time soon. We were divided between keeping him up, because he said some pretty cool things , but also we needed our rest, and it was a long time since we cuddled with anysheep. So four sheep came to the rescue. They would take over, to let Potamotrygorgeous and McSleepy spoon.

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The four sheep inhaled the impregnated air. They didn’t say a word, and if there was supposed to be music playing, it would sound like a band. Drums only. Salsa beat. Tok. Tok. Tok. Tok. McSleepy had filled all the molecules with so much of his thought,enough to keep the whole flock awake, and then some. But these four sheep were special. They were immune, because they were alike. Being with four they formed some sort of even rectangle, each occupying one corner. And inside that square a bed was formed.

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And in that bed a herder spooned with a sheep. And a picture was taken. And then the photographer left the room.

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