Kat drops another blankie. suddenly, it’s just like the first time. This could be forever. Curtains closed to the sunlight, just those dusty echoes caught in the skybeams. Onceuponatimes that never were, not no more. Peeling herself from the armchair she rises. It stings, leather against skin. Everyone has gone home, staggered in morning dew along the broken pavingslabs. All apart from garbriel. He’s curled up against the floorboards, wrapped in dolphin blue. She wishes she could lick him, bring him into her world, where every second is virgin white. He says he has too much to remember. That’s why he dreams, swallowing down mouthfuls of light between gasps of want.

She would take him by the hand, if she could remember. Lead him not into temptation, but beyond. She could only wish for a garden, show him how everything burns. He’s not really interested, but she sees something in his eyes. Something that wants more than that which once was.

Walking about the debris of the night, every step vacuum fresh, she leaves the room, steps out into the unknown. Before her stairs that weave on corners. She wonders about those that weave, wrapping each moment upon itself in a pattern that reaches the great beyond. It’s all so clear.

This is the kitchen. She knows not what she does, only that it smells of delight. She runs her sticky hands along the sides, between the dirty pots and pans. Each sensation and texture a revelation. Residues of eternal truths. They mean more than most will ever know.

She falls upon the window pane, grooves of skin disrupting a delicate film of perspiration. Kat is gasping that forever sigh. Beyond the filth that has grown on the outside of the glass like sympathetic fungus, down past the accidental balcony, in the alleyway where the darkened cinders of a stolen car soak up the dawn, the figure of a man, dripping crimson, has curled himself up into a corner – hiding as if from the slowly creeping light.

Kat wants more. Will not be content with residues, contained by fungus. Wants to let the outside in.

The door is a rubix cube, can only be solved by touch, esoteric knowledge. She feels her way along the cold, hard edges of the lock, releases the catch and feels herself rushing through the cracks as the door creaks open, mingling with the chill of the air. Barefoot she navigates the rust downwards.

Kneeling before the man, his shallow breath like a tide lapping gently at her toes, she feels him all over, touching the red and licking it from her fingers. The flavour of time itself. Somewhere in the distance she hears a voice creaking, spluttering, slowly unravelling. Becoming nothing.