Cinderella at the ball tears her feet to shreds drinks something sickly red and misses her curfew. At 3am I think I might do anything within the realms of physical possibility. Oh wait. Remember where I am. Later I dream of being in another city, of straight streets and buskers and bus rides and pink lady apples. A terrifying, exhilarating anonymity, a being almost foreign and not understanding, a being very far from home.
(I also dream of the Queen with a lung infection, and the father of a primary school friend drawing chalk lines on a picnic table.)
Your writing is stunning and breath taking. I spent two hours lost in it. It was the only two hours of my day that wasn’t spent in tears. Thank you.