I arranged my scarf like a pixellated image of red lips caressing a rose and then scattered petals along the empty road as I walked June to work. It was so dark I imagined us both trapped inside an ancient chest – in an earlier episode of the detective story I live in (I play both the cop and the criminal) I had opened the lid expecting to find the shrivelled remains of Ginevra but instead a troupe of exotic dancers climbed out, their heads made of old stones and their bodies from books that had never been read. I put an old typewriter into the void and wrote on my hand. June was late home and I had strung four electric guitars for a Hindu rock and roll god before she had crossed the dividing line between purple and white clothes. The white clothes went out again soon after.