I looked out the crumpled window as June went up the road with the crumpled door in her pocket. Spirits who could have been merely mathematical equations were patrolling the top of the stairs as I climbed down the gutter pipe with my plans for the day in a sack over my shoulder. A policeman from a children’s story ran up and touched my arm - using a character from an adult’s story I then touched his. I went to town in a plastic car, stopping to fill up on Lego bricks before coming home again in a chariot pulled by feral cats - the dog was by the gate. I had time to redesign the bridge spanning the space where my imagination stops before June returned from work holding a woollen figure which had began unravelling all down the road; she called the resulting ball of wool a real person.