“GHHHhhHHHH.” Eyes unsticking. Consciousness grasping out of a sandstone void. Heavy blankets of cheap fleece peel back. Thoughts don’t harden into words. Switched off that deafening heater. I; tenderly. Is not there. Am I snail? What was that dream where this body lived somewhere else? With a mother with a triangle haircut. This trauma or that. Pink walls close in, even in the dark. Time has broken its joints. A lifetime mushrooms and sinks, as light as the dream. Breathing is hard, thinking is different, but baby wipes on the toilet remind me what’s real: A flight (scary), a fiancé (far away), a human (me). Phone glows familiar and my fingers call him. That thick weave of time and place and self, unravelled. Connection lost. I drift back to sleep.