I got up as June, now a bird of prey, flew from one outstretched arm to another. I went into my studio thinking it would save a lot of time if I only exhibited picture frames and then cradled words in my arms that had never been part of a story - I promised to write something for them but the plot escaped me. I had to go out briefly, passing a line of amorphous shapes who secretly hoped I would identify them even though the most meaningful things in this world are actually abstract. I returned to work just before June returned to the house with wings on her ankles that she had borrowed from Mercury - he said he was in no hurry to have them back. That evening the dog and I walked past the derelict house again - I like to pretend that people do actually live there but we just cannot see them.