Marcus asked the group to picture their mind as an empty hill. Amy imagined her brain as a pillowy surface. No ridges carved by habitual thought. This morphed into a pockmarked block of cheese. Then to cheese trailed with mould. Then mould topped with her sister’s memoir which their mother referred to as the ‘bible of your sister’s money-making lies’. 

It’s not the moment, it’s after the moment and I see myself lying on the bed in orange light with you lying across my lap, your mouth still sucking in your sleep. I’m also asleep even though I have tried, I know I have tried not to, I know how important it is, and I see myself waking, checking my phone and realising it has been at least two hours, no more, many, many more hours of just lying there …

I rarely write things this real, was planning on writing nothing but poetry in Texas, but when someone tells you a story and your first and enduring thought is, Iggy Pop needs to hear this, what else can you do?