“They stare sadly at a chink of light in the door. The end and start of everything ever to have ended or started. The room is a hypothetical universe and the chink of light is its beginning. People beat planets thrown out through the thin lick of light and the planets beat them back with heavy hands. A world builds itself and shatters into a thousand envelopes before the bear and the teacher. ‘I feel small’ says the bear. The teacher nods.”

“I have woken and this world is a disappointing production line of steel and pig fat. Wide men idle smugly by crippled women selling themselves. Those left in sleep remain sane and sad. (He hasn’t come to make me.)”

“I let the bird inside me. It sits safely beneath my sweatshirt, my hands supporting its feeble shape from below like a baby. He will bathe the babe in a freestanding silver bath. At home I lay it in my bed. (He hasn’t come to make me.) Two women explore familiar territory on the first storey. Flesh melting into eyes. I climb into bed beside the bird. ‘Please fix the door in the morning, the latch has gone funny’ I say, ‘and don’t forget, we have dinner with your parents tomorrow.'”

Ben Brooks rocks. Buy yourself this from Fugue State Press or Amazon.