The wind tickles the leaves. The leaves are the hairs in my beard. She strokes my beard when we fuck. In the throes of mimicry, the wind creeps through the window, whipping my arse straight out of a porno from the ’70s. The wind knows every inch of me, unlike me. I know less about myself than I do strangers in convenience stores the day after the night before in the act of buying aspirin to ease bones that feel gnawed upon by the teeth of starving rats. She leaves bruises on my skin. Distortions the colour of storm clouds. When she pulls my hair, the anger in me rises like steam from a kettle, only for it to melt like snow the moment our lips meet as we speak our seedy truths. These images are always with me. They’re the glue that sticks me together in the face of nothingness. I’m not afraid of nothingness. I knew it before, and I’ll know it again. Yet I want to be more than just ordinary—for there to be a reason for my being here other than mere happenstance. The wind scratches at my eyes leaving me blind, and as the little death shakes my cage, I’m as high as the kites flying over the hills outside the window rolling all the way to my golden past.