She wants to hold a hand but she’s got clinic sweats. Young blood under baby skin, thick like a pulse at night. She feels old, that’s what it is.

Back on the street she wants to talk about the world but she’s got chemist breath. Paper bags come tumbling down from heaven to send nausea and screaming, help me.

This car is a shaking bin. Heavy dubstep wubs its way out of shitty subwoofers in the boot. It makes a back massage she didn’t know she needed. The windows are down and for the first time in her life she is in that car, thumping at the lights, being looked at as if its inhabitants were engaging in nonchalant sexual activity in the middle of the road. It makes her feel a little powerful.

She allows the wave of short-term catatonia to hit. Her head hangs to one side and the sun breaks down onto it and also makes her leg sting. For this short while, it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t make sense. This is the world’s big featherduster, welcome one and all, to feel summer fever hit hard and delude her.