I extinguish myself then set about you but like teaching, taxes, Lost’s last season, I couldn’t plot the fairground rides in the right order so that they didn’t smash as they spun.
People I knew in school start disappearing, in coastal towns, cliff edges, at the tops of forests with altitude, in busy precincts I no longer frequent. They’re not lost anywhere I’m familiar with and I’m not familiar either with them although the names are a roll call cemented in my brain better than biology, slicker than maths. I never revised, read, knew enough for exams, dissertations, dinner conversations. Couldn’t renovate talks with Aaron, conduct any meaning with John.
And every other dream’s less ridiculous and every girl I should’ve learnt from becomes the actress director dancer writer partner mother baker friend I’ll never be.