I dreamt I killed the snails, the last pets, dried up and starved. The woodpecker woke me up, and R, who has been up since five essay writing, so ridiculously awake that I stuck my head under the duvet till she’d gone.

I am terrible at staying in touch.

I love the smell of you having just shaved.

The mess is creeping in slowly, despite my best efforts.

Between two Shakespeare shelves a blonde girl started talking and did not stop, and I fell in love a litte bit.

Last night in my pigeon hole I found a picture in biro and ink, of a snow garden, a blue moon and a tomato monster floating in the sky, my magnetic poem in pictures. It made me very very happy.