I sit here and realise that there won’t always be a time when I can. The breath in my body seems like a constant, though I know it isn’t. The air outside, my goodness, is there to breathe. And yet I sit indoors and think about the old times. I’m too young for this. The conversations pack my bags for me. The small touches of contentment send me into a spasm of unrest. The kettle boils and the windows steam up. If the phone never rings again, if my feet stay here in this muddy hole what can I say about life? From where do I relate my experience? From the classroom? Old loves? The bottom of a bottle? None of the latter owe anything and are in no debt. None can be leaned upon when it comes to your own pulse, the body you grow and its journey through the days and nights of panic. Blind screams into nowhere. Nightmares designed to send me over the top for good. What, I ask myself, lies beyond the top? What have we assumed, what will we continue to guess upon? You and I were never to be. You know it and so do I. We tear at each other desperately and yet we want something else. What we need the most is probably buried inside us. And all we need do is start digging. So I pass on the message you gave me and watch my own face glisten with tears. I wonder whether these dimly lit nights are the slow wind-down or the gasp before the plunge. It needn’t be dramatic at all. But while we are here, why not try something new? Pressure dictates that I read out the message, though my voice wavers. The fields are beaten by bad weather but this note will arrive safe. As a sentiment, it was not even written by me. My dear, follow the dreadful path back home.