I translated a poem in my sleep

I was standing in a library made of old typewriters, each one typing a different version of the same line—some in reverse, some in code, some in a language that didn’t exist. I reached for a notebook and wrote down what I thought was the original. When I woke, the page was blank except for a single footnote: 'This is not a translation. It’s a confession.' The coffee’s cold now, but I still feel the weight of the pen.