Describe me the same way all West Country want-to-be-guitar-men do. Like a field. Bloody lush, beautiful. I’ll try making the most of happy. Last week we tried to reach the water, fishermen only. I used to wake up early on Saturdays before my swimming lessons knock on your bedroom door and walk straight in it was broken, the handle. I saw something in the mirrored wardrobe I shouldn’t. My body rejected water after that. Pulled under a type of tide twice I broke the doctor’s back with my non-muscles. A scream for Mother, not you not you. I told her she was just like you that was the worst thing ever said. Yesterday your reflection was on West Street by the time I spat you’d evaporated. A stranger snaps the straps off me later that brings us up to date.