As the ice melts, the sky swells with memories the shape of childish hands. Momentarily, I’m blinded by innocent love and the need to be held in my mother’s arms. Then comes the spinning world, and the necrotic noise from a crowd of baying mouths hungry for the air in my lungs. People come and go out of the supermarket on the corner. I loiter, smoking cigarettes and kicking my feet. Among dizzy spells and the smell of burnt toast, kids chat shit then flee. They run into the road and disappear like ghosts. The slush that was snow becomes a river and washes me away to a place out of time and mind. I hear the hustle and bustle of life. Can feel the warmth of others and the vibrations caused by the echoes of their voices as they carry through the streets like soda cans swimming through sewers never to be seen again. It’s December, and I’ve been here before, yet these footsteps are as new to me as the air I breathe. The clouds are pregnant with shadows. The lights about me blinking like affectionate lovers beneath warm blankets on Sunday mornings where everything is still and safe. It’s a fine line. A divisive desire to escape while remaining cradled like a babe, and as I muster the words to speak my truth, I’m overcome by childhood fears that riddle me like ringworm.