I got up before the young voice in an old body rang. We spoke the language of calendar dates, coming to rest like a roulette ball on Tuesday - we both lost our chips. The voice laughed as I said “the week was like a serpent eating its own tail”. After someone else came in carrying an Ancient Greek column I walked to town holding a rabbit: he was off white with a penchant for fox jokes, none of which I had heard. We parted company where the little boys had jumped the river in olden days - the youngest always falling in with a splash. I prefered to jump ship and surfaced again with a glass bottle in my top pocket; if I am lucky someone drops in coins and reseals the top. I spent some time as smoke coming out of a distant chimneys and then collected the rabbit as a waterfall inside a wine cask.