Gravity pulls, the Earth needs a hug. But everything rushes. The moon wants a cuddle: the harder it tries to get close, the faster it spins away. The sun wants to nuzzle its loved ones: ten in a bed, but each has its own agenda, no one listens. Some year soon, or not soon, but at some point, he’ll succeed, tired, red, bloated, and his distant companions will give in, and melt away together, a deep hot bath at the end of a long day. The sky and the ground will embrace, as they finally retire and breathe out a sigh, and as they stop running they will succumb to chaos, but they will break and shine in unison. Silent and slow, and messy and broken, they find company only in stopping.

Li sold oranges. Every morning, early, before the commuters awoke, he would spring up from his mattress, crawl into his overalls, rev up the scooter, down the dark street, left, right, left, straight for eight blocks, two lefts and a right, to Mr. Yu’s. He got the job right after school, with the intention of saving up for something more, but inertia kept him stuck. He planned to quit and go to flight school – he had earned enough money. He was not happy and wanted to leave, but every time he thought he had had enough, and was about to pluck up the courage, Mr. Yu would come round and say “Li, you’re the best orange seller we’ve got!” He would feel buoyed, and worth something, and he would think “Maybe this isn’t so bad after all”, and so he would set his pride down, and carry on as before, and sell some more oranges.

It was old and she was late. There were no steps left to take and too many breaths left to catch. She propped herself up on the vined brick and gazed upward, eyes closed, sweat swirling in her creases. If she didn’t make the journey, no one would, but the days were so hot; age, and the body’s innate yearning for stillness, was beginning to get the upper hand. And frankly, what was the point? Nothing but tradition, keeping forgotten rituals alive for long forgotten reasons. She hoisted the rabbit up off her back and laid it down in the short grass, gave it a quick kiss on the ear, said “good night, petal”, took a quick look at the stars, and the lanes, and the shadowed spring blooms, and began once again the descent.

The crowded carriage, a delicate tubular shell offering sanctuary from the trees and ground and sky that are flying by with such momentum, everyone is going somewhere, yet each is a part of the wallpaper of another. There is a small boy, squealing in a manner no doubt as unwelcome to the human furniture as to me. His pacifier is redundant as his utterings flow around it. His mother (I presume) tells him to “shut up and come here”. He comes, but doesn’t shut up, and in his bid to do so whilst holding his own, falls and hits his head. His sounds take on a new tone, even less agreeable. Nothing much changes. Everyone is going somewhere.

Waking had always been a problem for Bill. Or perhaps not the waking per se, rather the daily battle with his alternate self, the one who exists only in the morning, and is more cunning, wise, devious and powerful than daytime Bill could ever hope to be. Regardless of the count of alarms or the mind tricks daytime Bill will try to play on morning Bill — hiding his clock under a pillow, putting it at the other end of the room, setting fourteen alarms, leaving the window open to let the sunlight in, somehow morning Bill will always win. Maybe it was time, thought Bill, that he just accept his fate, surrender to his more powerful self. After all, if he were as skilled as morning Bill wouldn’t his life be a treat? Wouldn’t it be easy! Let him take over. Or, get up and go to work. The eternal question.

“There’s really very little that can be done”, says Steve.

“Steve, you’re wrong.” says Carol.

An air of disquiet falls in the tent. Carol wriggles a little to alleviate the discomfort of the lumpy forest floor. It is not usual for Steve to be wrong, and not usual for Carol to unduly contradict him.

“He can’t be far, we’ll just wait till morning” sighs Steve.

“For goodness’ sake, this isn’t bloody Dorset”, is the reply.

Steve turns over and goes to sleep. Carol doesn’t.

Everywhere I look, another crawls away. There is a lamppost without a bulb (and it doesn’t matter, because it is daylight, and will remain such for another eight or so hours), upon which sits a gull watching as I do. The bird looks my way briefly, and then back to the shore.

St. Stephen’s Square, on repeat, the figure in the shadow of the streetlamp performs his ritual. Four wine glasses lie in front of him, atop a chequered teatowel stretched taut. He begins:

“The cat walks into the night, he can’t find his way out.”

A short but heavy pause follows, and then he runs a moistened finger around the rims of two glasses: F#, G#. He waits again, a little longer this time.

“The cat walks out of the night, he can’t find his way in”.

Another two notes, the same, and a longer pause. His stillness seeps from the dim corner into the lamplight of the sparse, meditative crowd.

“Morning has broken. The sun is rising.”

Four notes, louder: F#, G#, D#, C#. A long pause, the sound of his held breath.

He sets his hands down and begins again.

Either he was a lunatic, an artist, or he knew something we didn’t.

In the early 1980’s I had a short-lived career in a cinema – a summer job at the local Cinécitta. I had been hired as a popcorn girl, to smile sweetly at the customers and exchange what was essentially salted polystyrene for unreasonable coin counts, baring just enough skin to earn tips whilst avoiding the suspicions of the PG-13 audience.

After a couple of weeks in the job, one of the projectionists was hit by a milk truck and hospitalised (just a few broken bones and a newfound lactose intolerance). I covered for him while he was away. To keep things interesting, I sometimes used to mix up the reels – I developed a talent for seamlessly swapping over just after the title credits. I never messed with the big hitters – people would have noticed if Indiana Jones had turned up in E.T. – but the smaller films, the ones people went to without knowing anything about, I would sometimes change, just to see what people did. I like to think the chill factor of Poltergeist is vastly amplified if your audience member thinks he’s setting himself up for a gentle comedy.

Needless to say, people didn’t like having this done to them. I was fired before the summer was out.

I like burning the tip of my tongue on a cup of tea, me. It reminds what it’s like to have a tongue. I don’t take milk, and I don’t take sugar. If I wanted milk or sugar, I would have just asked for some milk with some sugar in it. Today is Tuesday, which is good because this is the day the post comes. When the post comes, I’ll greet the postman with a cheery “Hello!” which I am sure he’ll like because it can be lonely round these parts. I’ll invite him in for a biscuit and a hot drink. He’ll say “Oh no thanks, better be gettin’ on”. I’ll insist, he’ll concede “Go on then, just a quick’un”. I’ll bring him in, set him down, pack of custard creams, get his memory going, remind him of her, he will’ve clocked it by now. “Don’t see many o’—” bring in the teapot, glass bottle to the back of the head, he’ll like that, remind him of what it’s like to be alive.