I got up with a picture of the sun eclipsed by two March hares in the Ancient Greek Tokamak of my mind. I wrapped my head in a cloth last worn by a close friend of Cleopatra and then went to London dressed as a Napoleon in Wellington boots - I was expecting rain but the sun danced like a lagomorph all day. I tied up all my loose ends with the ghost of a tea clipper casting pointed shadows on the pristine white floor. I returned home inside a football kicked by multiracial feet, finding myself in the back of the net surprisingly early in the evening. June was hanging upside down reading a book on bats when I opened the middle door - I placed the bags I had been carrying in a sacred circle and made a set of steps I will climb up when I am older.