Piers and mirrors and fast food wrappers and hair clips and dead ends and cigarettes that bounce in the road and your smile and yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Teaspoons of English desperation while standing in line waiting to pay for your shopping and a terror attack in New York and beheadings in Mexico where headless bodies are placed on plastic chairs beneath a bridge as if such a thing were nothing out of the ordinary. Chopped up teenagers in a house in Japan. Acid attacks on the streets of London. Stray dogs that bite your ankles down alleys where years before you staggered back from a night out in town after tasting a girl with strawberry flavoured lips. The other evening, I had a dream I was married to a thirtysomething version of Mary Bell. She was wicked and cruel and wore black tights, and I loved every second of it. She looked a bit like X. Never really noticed it before. Never noticed anything before. So yeah, me and Mary were all tied up, and the kicks we got from slipping into the void were unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. There was black cotton wool everywhere, and when we did our thing, there were teeth and bones and black holes and not an ounce of flesh anywhere to be seen because flesh is rubbish, ain’t it just? Those piers. Those mirrors. They take me places, y’know? Those doors I can hear her giggling behind, they shimmer at the foot of the bed when I’m trying to sleep, and every so often they open a little, and what I see makes me curl my toes and bite my tongue while wishing for such sights never to leave. When I wake in the morning, there’s fluid smeared all over my groin, and yeah it’s crude and yeah it’s pathetic but these visions have me at their mercy and all I can ever do is obey.