True, I speak of dreaming in the afternoon and reading out on my cabin’s tin-roof, I can stand and see the otters back again. The otters are haunted. The demented truth which cunning time assumes Say This is a cold decree rotten to the snake who lives and dies inside us all.

The pounding music fades. We smoke weed in the theatre’s lobby, it’s another night club clubbing. All the blue of flesh. Remorse. Power. Born under a rimming planet.