Bibles. Secretion. Lovers in flames and lovers in denial. A kiss. Kisses. Beer and cigarettes and wine and those streets that dissolve only to come back together again when you’re sleeping. And when you sleep, where do you go? When your defences are down and the universe speaks to you in the language of the stars, what do you do with the information you’re given? I had a dream about Sophie the other night. She drove me to where she lived, which was some low-rise apartment block somewhere by the coast. When we got out the car, she picked up a leaf from a strip of grass and placed it in her pocket. She was smiling at me, and when I asked her what she had to be so happy about, her smile turned into a grin and she led me by the hand up to her room. When I awoke shortly after, I felt crushed that it wasn’t true. There were other dreams as well. Random stuff about fridges, and mountains made of lego. There was also a room above a furniture store that sold books. These books, they were all written by me, and yet I had no knowledge of them. They had no covers, and they bore no words. The rest is just a blur. After getting dressed and going downstairs, I opened the fridge and ate two pieces of week-old fried chicken. Wiping my mouth and throwing away the bones, I lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. It was raining, and dark. The bleak morning worsened my depression. It made me want to go back to bed, but I resisted the best I could by going for a walk, only the rain soaked my clothes and got into my shoes and then everything seemed just so much worse.