Thursday 3rd August

I wake with the stench of raw fish skin and vomit in my dry mouth. It takes a while before I realise that it’s just my imagination (running away with me) and I’ve woken abruptly from a dream I was quite interest in finishing. The speed of the air conditioner makes my curtains move magically as if they are alive and breathing. Standing to attention, tall waiting to be parted and reveal my life size window with the cold it’s marble window lip that I’ve started to stand on with my hot wet feet after a shower. Looking out to see nothing of nature and only of human accomplishment. A single post-it note sticks to my window, from before I arrived. Liking it there, I wont ever remove it. Even though I’ve cleaned my teeth until my gums bleed a little I can’t ease the dream. With a young man I know, but don’t remember we watch the fat grey fish slither through the murky smudgy brown water, the same water that flows in the river below our apartment. Somehow we know the fish are sick, and dying. I pick one out of the water, it lies limp in my arms almost a meter long and wider than my wrist to my elbow. I lift it effortlessly above my head and relax as it slips down my throat. I feel its slippery gills travel down hitting my stomach and I hold my hand over my mouth to stop the sick but I cough and it spits out uncontrollably. Things are only as important as we want to make them, no.