You read me a story about a strange clockwork bird, and I flew away to dance with aurora borealis.
We are sheltering in our dreams, spending time with animals and gentle folk who move gracefully.
The dream is punctuated by broken glass and the threat of knives, but I really can’t go there right now.
She is frightened by his humour and clearly more at home when the date is reviewed on national tv.
Even now, you are searching for meaning, and I can remember how dark it was outside that train.
