How to describe in poetry, the profane if insomnia was my sin and awake it made me dream of a story or a reality, where sin took me to you made me an impure saint before the purity of a perfect naivety of a pure sister, who in her follies allowed herself to be admired between the crack of the door by the one who always desired her and knows every detail of her, the punishment was the refuge of dawn... not just the lashes of perplexed guilt or penance of a sordid and exciting night. Returning to my room I felt myself at the prayer table and I seek to recover from the profane insanities of the night... Even not knowing if it was a dream or a sinful insomnia...