How does one actually sleep, and how does one sleep in a poem, and how does one sleep as a poem? What is a mediocre poet, and how far can such a person venture out of poetry, when they actually long to immerse themselves in it? How melancholic does the bird fly that flew under a gray sky? And why should death be red? These are just a few questions that Michael Hammerschmid poses in his poems and children's poems, in his lullabies, hide-and-seek games, and in the sonnets of careless estimations, to which he builds nests with his dreamlike language, helping them to take flight.