Counting sheep again? That gentle lie we were sold as children collapses in the Romanian winter, where sheep do not line up like polite arithmetic but whirl in snowdrifts, jittery as vinyl needles stuck on the wrong track. Insomnia here is not a flaw, it is admission to a spectacle, wool flashing against white fields, breath steaming like small engines that refuse to shut down. High in the Carpathians, sheep feel less like animals and more like mobile doctrine. Their fleece is an archive of weat