Cleaving unto my own.

There are, as you knew there would be, stories to tell. Some of them are strange and startled. Some I won't tell you at all. Some are steep slants of light down the high sides of city streets. Some are shadows and fragments and statues and stars in spaces I'd never visited. Some are the sun straight on in my face, my hand making a tiny eclipse within which I can make my way to the Tube.

But rather than try to tell any of them tonight, I'm going to save them for this week and feed them to you, one by one, in the interstices of the writing that restarts the moment I'm back out of bed.

Some are falls of glass, sounding beyond a café's open door.