The air was coarse with summer dust. No point in cleaning, we just had to wait it out. I set my book down on the pile and wandered to the kitchen to grab my drink. There was a moonbeam in my cup. It had slipped through a gap in the crumbling wall, slithered across the kitchen, and rested its toe in my tea, as if to say, “I’m here too, it’ll be alright.” I stared at the uninvited glow. And then I took another vessel, filled it up, leant against the counter, took a sip, and felt, for once, in good company.