This was a collapsed star sort of day: somewhere in between a revolving neutron star and a black hole (which in my werewolf Mother Teresa story I place in Calcutta). I followed the faintest of pencil lines for the merest moment in the morning before going out in the jaws of a great beast. My friend and I climbed out of the unblinking cockpit eye and met the old woodsman away from the woods. I collected holly leaves for a barefoot dance while my friend went through the dustbins: which had been arranged to look like the ruins of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. After I had performed my dance to an audience of tree shrews we came home in the same mechanical beast as we had left; the flag on its tail belonging to no country in particular.