The full moon trawls for ice behind Sheffield Centre. She likened it to swimming liquid vinyl, how quiescent bubbles effused solder, how her shoulders slipped out of place, leaving her staggering breathless through a ruddy underbrush, maybe even thatched.

I was dreaming when I wrote this. I was interfacing with languaged.

His evasiveness indicates that he has issues with relinquishing control to others. The trees on Clifton blacken and fan. He dreams this night about being prostrate before a car.

That night of three shadows point me out.

The same night of Housing Projects from the Seventies.

She trawls a fur over stumps. She drags behind her those fractions of faces she thought to keep.