I’m keeping myself up trying to talk to you here. Writing words and phrases and now it’s two o’clock. You’re long asleep with Bliss. Wish for some sort of transfer, like polaroid onto paper, that would let me ride her mind for the night. Be a shedding curl of fur alongside your body. I was almost sorry that I didn’t get to spend the night at the studio that once when Ian and Mishka were off and like lost. I think it would have been that much of a true feeling to wake there than the basement. Sleeping alone but without other bodies in the room. Waking to colour. Seems such a strangely familiar place, that studio, as if I’ve been there in a dreaming. Nothing of it was strange when I got there, more like I was reminding myself of the details. Being me, I apply logic to it though. I’m one of the Voltaire Bastards. I figure that it must be that I grew up in such places, though that feels like the wrong explanation. Instruments instead of paintings perhaps, so less of a warm feel, emptier maybe, with power cords and false chrome stands, but similar spaces. Rooms forgotten by everyone else and so available for living in by the creative poor.