There was a burnt-out car in the parking lot of a local supermarket. I was thinking of her thighs at the time, and somewhere in the far reaches of my mushy brain the opening title-shot music of The Shining was playing, and her body was this haunting, organic landscape that both pulled me in and spat me out. Then this burnt-out car. It interrupted my strange dream so much so I came to a stop and stood there eyeing up the charred remains as a few police officers walked around taking notes, passing them on to others via their walkie-talkies, or whatever it is you call them. I wanted to take a photo but thought better of it. They would’ve presumed I was somehow involved, and they’d arrest me and search my room and find my writings and surely enough they’d lock me up and throw away the key. Inspecting the shards of glass on the ground by my feet, the strange smell of melted plastic itched my nose reminding me of burnt toast, and this led me to view her body as edible. Like ice-cream. Or the sweets I’d eat as a kid on my lunch break at school. That shop at the top of the road where my grandparents lived. It sold every kind of teeth-rotting slice of heaven you could wish for, along with those dirty magazines I’d sneak a peek at pretending I was looking at something else. The bodies of those women that graced the covers. The external wonders they had to offer. The inner pleasures I was certain existed within but had no proof. They left me a mess. Still do. Rolling a smoke, one of the police officers glanced over at me, and I looked down at a puddle near my right foot. Within it, I saw her body, and it moved in mysterious ways. Holding my breath, the music from The Shining kicked in again, and upon my wet lips, I tasted her as if she were by my side. She tasted of blackcurrant Chewits and ancient evil. The type that makes a man lose his mind without realising.