The Packet

It’s a fine day and you travel across the city on your bike in the sun. Later you have the chance to enjoy a glass of water. You think of a few cartoons you once knew, you feel sorry for the robot in one of them. Your limbs hurt with this. There is someone in front of you getting into the shower, the shower curtain is purple, you have lived in this bathroom your whole life, it seems there is nothing outside it apart from what’s in the window, those ferns and steps.

You start to cry. Your mother hums a tune through her lips, she is a ghost and looks nothing like your mother. Around the campfire we hope. You the praying mantis of hope, the mantle piece where I rest my forehead, the beanie wearing thermos making goddess of good ash, ash that you don’t mind about when it falls on you. Ash covers us and it’s rained off by rain. We go to the Clover Hall to buy buns. I can speak, can’t I? you say to me, in this moment I can be sure of nothing other than I love you, you criminal!