TE17 Mysterious Montenegro

The Dreamed Part

at last from the insects and termites in the wood). To the beds whose measurements are defined as King or Queen. To the beds on display in the Victoria and Albert Museum. To the silver bed of amaharaja and the Spartan futons of samurais and theminimalist ottoman sommiers. To the novelty of convertible beds (there is one that turned into a piano or was it a piano that turned into a bed) and to the modern air mattresses and waterbeds (which are like rafts containing oceans and that many associate with shipwreck-like orgasms) and to the hammocks on ships cast off for dreamed-of lands. To the psychotic sofa beds and with the shy beds named Murphy that lift up and turn into wall and to beds that vibrate if you feed them coins. To beds in flames (not because you fall asleep smoking, but because you have fallen into the vice of sleeping with your mobile phone under the pillow and the device heats up and explodes; in that place where once rested a tooth, a photograph, a cross, a perfumed letter, or even the dose of an addiction far more interesting and creative than those little marooned messages without a bottle). To hospital beds that can end up being deathbeds and where many—like a few bull fighters—say goodbye with a “Mommy” or a “Mamita.” And from there to his own beds, the beds that are his. To his parents’ bed, to his cradle (that cradle that, yes, “rocked above an abyss”), to the little bed in the shape of a rocket and the trundle bed (himon top and Penelope below), and his first bed away from home, accompanying him up and down in various apartments, and the hotel beds and the beds at some literary foundation, and the beds where he stayed a few nights (never a thousand and one) and the ones in which, the next day, he woke up thinking “How did I end up in this bed and what is the name of its owner, there beside him, sleeping or pretending to sleep?” and praying that 205