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Voice, it is, with eyes, water's children, and fingers too, here, hearing 's well, that opens them those curtains, uncertain, so heavy they and green, a gift something remembers from Karen, and the outside is still there, oh deity not where, and what there is is the blackshape, the nothing of its descending, plus cars, don't know the makes , me, and lights, they is electric, a prison, one hospital, hairdressers, launderettes, fagshops, chippies, not woodwork as in (all closed them latter at this ungodly hour) while glancing back this frightened thing finds books, tee-shirts, prints, one there is by Kate, naive in style but effective, ash, undusting, a printer once again, and a nerve-bundle realises, wallets, cards, keys, what matters are the outside's I love you's, that say matter does this being, as in some poems as in books ( I can see them, not exactly green one, nudging blue, the other yellow covered) by Al, or Rob, or in yesterday (not yesterday, Monday) not now Safia calling from a white Citroen ( I know that one): darling. Better now it's told me, that aware finding that. Phew! David Bircumshaw Leicester 00.01 Wednesday