Something, which may have just been the bitterly cold wind, pressed a message to the window. I couldn’t read it until I ran a diesel-electric locomotive through the station in my brain. Nor could I write a reply until I had examined the aircraft wreckage found under the sheets of our double bed and then watched the dissipating contrails of intersecting aircraft above the new houses across the road - in the window of the nearest one a small tabby cat was busy stroking a man. I walked the dog along a path of numbers and she then walked me along a path of words; some I didn’t know although I noticed they rhymed (I thought, for the briefest moment, that art is probably only finding rhymes among words we don’t know). I was woken from this reverie when June came in dressed as a pink parakeet.