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The sun was shining on a knife blade morning as I ventured out with a hat fashioned after the crab nebula and with swampland gloves, immune to any kind of snake venom. I passed the playhouses on stilts, my invisible guest had told me they walk down the road at night, but the workers had gone – I knew they would return; as would he. After my own return, like a flock of radio signals come home to roost, I had no other reason to leave the house. I kept myself warm with music and cool with art. I imagined a static time in an expanding space while an articulated lorry roared down the road and a lone cyclist wended his way up it. I painted a window so a man could accidentally fall out; he got up again, dusted himself off and walked away with the thigh bone of an extinct ape under his extremely hairy arm.