I sleep on a thin futon that is roughly my length and slightly wider than my shoulders. Between the wooden floor and the cotton mattress there is a piled Kazakh rug the size of a standard double bed. The futon fits rather well into the main field of the rug, which is indigo in color. The rest of the rug is yellow, orange, and red. When I get up in the morning, I roll up the futon and cover it with a small and rough kilim from Konya in Anatolia. It is white, yellow, brown, and black. I rest my elbow on the rolled-up futon when I read. For my afternoon naps I do not unroll the futon. I curl up on the rug and rest my head on the kilim. My body is pretty lean, but I still feel perfectly comfortable both at night and in the afternoon. I feel well when I wake up, as well. My back gives me no trouble whatsoever. Now, I am going into all this detail concerning my sleeping habits because most of my visitors just shake their heads when they see where I sleep. And I just shake my head when I see their soft and thick mattresses; their heavy and bulky beds; their bedrooms that cannot be used for any other purpose. Or when I hear their stories about their back troubles. Pray, who is crazy here?

Addendum (August 30, 2016)

So many years later, my sleeping habits have not changed an iota. Well, the futon is a bit thinner now, I guess. Although I fluff it up and expose it to the sun on my terrace every now and then, the cotton in it is getting ever more compact over the years. As well as ever harder, too. The same holds for my futon in my beloved’s apartment in Zagreb, except that it never gets exposed to the sun, for there is no terrace there. One way or another, my sleeping habits seem to be good for me. My body, that is. My back is still serving me pretty well in my dotage. And I cannot imagine going for a soft and thick mattress ever again. Perish the thought. Such crippling comforts are reserved for the civilized tenderfoot.