lying on the sofa blankly, low-level tv consciousness idling, barely ticking over, staring endlessly at the big box of which i remember only landscapes, not what was happening inside them. in the desert, on the ice cap, under the rocks and stones a small world teeming with life, but nothing but rocks on the moon - so they say in the papers... i dreamt of the moon last night, it was a cold place with a bouncy surface, something like cheese, but not green. now i am awake, still feverish, and the lamp throws shadows on the yellow walls. i lie on my back beneath the light and cut the shadows with finger shadow scissors, while words play shadow tricks on my mind, remembering things -

rock, paper, scissors, darnit you always pulled the same one as me, every damn time. uncanny. were we the same inside? did we work the same way, was our wiring the same? that should have scared me but it didn't, it only brought a lift of eyebrow, a shrug, a conspiratorial grin, each and every time

flick to the window, two planes rising slowly drawing diagonal parallel lines across the sky. they shine like stars. this is what i want, to travel like that, separate but parallel, never following or leading or fighting for space but relaxed, and going at my own speed - just able to look round occasionally and find that conspiratorial grin.
who goes there?
friend or foe?
ah definitely friend.

hate this shitty cough, keep thinking of all the little alveoli going pop pop pop and now i'm shivering
hot head = cold hands
short skirt = cold knees
feels like knives, hands clutch, eyes water reaching blindly for the kitchen tap gotta get a drink or i'll choke - shit! thump crash, and on the floor fallen broken almost perfectly in half a thick-bottomed glass beaker. clear, beautiful sharp gleaming edge with a blueness to it or maybe green, a sea colour, rippled like water. i lift it to look through, careful not to cut myself, and see

here in my hand
sharp-edged, prismatic fragments of a world, and the spaces between them
reflecting infinity.

late afternoon and already outside the dark is drawing in. here in this high narrow house above the city lashed by howling winds, rain all around, i could believe myself to be on the only island of living things in this whole bleak place...  the sky, rag-rolled three shades of damp translucent grey, slides by as if i and not it were moving. like backdrops in old movies it rolls past the window while the wind cranks it up faster and faster, whirl and spin of leaves, of litter, plastic bags roosting briefly in the trees and flapping away and all the while the frantic jangling of the wind chimes sounds like breaking glass made tangled melody -
all is movement.

and i am the still point at its centre, the eye of the sphere of chaos, axonometrically projected and orbiting around me.
when i am not here, the world disappears, or reforms itself in shapes of fire and shadow distorted by dream: we are all centres of our own worlds,
this is how it should be.