Down by the river and I’m swaying from side to side. Dropped my tobacco at some point after leaving the pub. Was too dark to find, so I swore and moved on. And now I’m here. There are voices in the air. They’re coming from the direction of town. Drunken voices with a hint of violence. Among the trees and wide-open spaces, no one else is around. No one I can see, that is. The night is still. It calms my nerves. It speaks to my soul in ways no other understands. The swans are sleeping, as are all the other animals, and as I sway while breathing in the scent of water and damp grass, life feels like a dream. Perhaps it is? Perhaps none of this is real at all? Or maybe it’s just the beer talking? There are doors. I’ve said this before. The trick is deciding which one to walk through. Sitting down on a bench and looking up, I see stars and supervoids. I see everything and nothing. There’s something in the air. A change of sorts. It dances in the blades of grass up to the leaves of the trees. There’s no going back, and there’s no going forwards, it’s just a matter of shifting sideways enough times until you find a place where your bones feel at home. Could stay here until morning. Just close my eyes and hang with all these ghosts, but no, I’ll go home. If I stay I’ll freeze in my sleep, but that door. The door that calls my name. I can feel it watching me, waiting for my approach.