We are drinking vanilla rooibus tea a lot, at night when we sit too close to single-glazed windows pressed up with our noses squashed against the glass, and from there if it weren’t for the fog of breath we might catch every tearing off of hangnails, every bowl of cereal on the bed, every far-off tangle of  limbs and the folding of underwear and hankerchiefs into perfectly small squares. And we experiment with feet, naked feet on the coarse stubble grass of the upper field where playing frisbee counts as sport, naked feet on the cold concrete slabs of in between buildings,and amongst the daisy-weeds of hippy crowns and broken links. And in the seven am dew, which we drink up with our touch-starved toes, (and orange juice and later three fig coffees).