Supple wings, veined and iridescent—do they wink at you, tips curling over the top of toadstools from where their bearers peek at you, like a puzzle to be solved, like prey to be stolen from? They whisper behind cupped hands, the sound rushing to blow the strands off your neck.

Flash fades, edges soften; a blade of light sits beneath the curtain. Brush strokes sharpen, context unfurls as frames are carefully shattered and re-hung, windows slide open to the worlds behind your eyes. Corners suddenly rendered oblique. Familiar angles bend and break.

It is difficult to sleep at night sometimes, with the hazy apparitions that dance like revellers around your bed. Spindly fingers close around your wrist and you are woken by a cold breath on your neck. In the stillness and dark, you fumble for your phone and send a few anxious messages. You are left on read at 4:41 am.