The evenings are made for spaghetti and meatballs. Red skies that shimmer like blood and stars as juicy as a cosmic tit belonging to some long-forgotten god birthed on the shores of a time we will never know. Breathing in, I taste memories of greasy fingers around tightened throats. The smell of Autumn in my university days, dry yet warm like honey and cigarettes disappearing beneath crushing feet on balconies overlooking streets swimming with the adolescent fear of the female form. Yesterday is snow. Tomorrow is a road paved with sorrow. Wrapping the spaghetti around my fork, I swallow a mouthful and wince. Too hot. Too spicy. They do say, though, that spicy food makes your come taste better, so maybe I should grin and bear it. As the steam drifts through the open window, the stars are kissed out of sight. She sings and strokes the keys of the piano as if they were alive. I can’t see her, but I feel her. Shapeless like a jewel. Life is a puppet show. I see the strings, though, which is why I’m sleeping in. To settle down is to drown in dust. I write on the wind. I dream in Technicolour.