I feel formless, an indescribable shape trying to congeal into something recognisable. A dream of a person, perhaps.

The nights are fraught: restless souls drift in and out of the pub at all hours, murmurring in candlelit corners while Billie Holiday croons in a heroin haze. Last night as I read about the imperfect orbits of the planets, I heard asteroids colliding: downstairs, roaring and chairs scattering as some long-brewing feud between a woman's brother and her fiancé explodes. Later on, the husband came into the bedroom, exhausted, falling asleep with the light on.

I cannot dream on such nights. When I wake up, I stare out into space, trying to collect my thoughts, impressions, and wishes, all the things that compose this frayed thing I call a self, just beyond my reach but indetectable, like dark matter.




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