Dan Brown sits comfortably in a window, piled on top of himself, overflowing. Big red stickers – REDUCED – he’s playing the part of ‘bait’ today. I don’t want his book, but it catches my eye and pisses me off so that I go into the damn bookshop for something that is not Dan Brown.

Dancing man at Kew Junction – waving and bucking around. Nanna crosses the road and smiles. Red Toyota passes and toots. People sit in the Kew Hotel and look at him through their half-empty beer.

Pidgeons scratch around my ceiling. They’ve invaded my balcony, and then my space. I can’t be around their scratching, my brain has no room for it.

Man lays in bed, sometimes I think he’s stopped breathing and I panic. We’re ships in the night, I haven’t seen the real him in weeks. I’ve only seen this ghost, this shadow. This hologram version of himself who speaks a language I can’t understand.

I’m surrounded by empty beer bottles and homework.