I had to go out again, travelling along the parting of the urban head June and I pretend to exist on (everyone knows reality is just a dream it is impossible to wake from): incidentally our house straddles a frown line. I came back before our host put his hat on and with the other shoppers still bickering among themselves like a family of pocket calculators arguing over their last sum. I slithered into my studio to watch a boa constrictor coil round a gravestone some time before the inscription could be finished. To compensate I wrote words on a remote hillside using the side of a dictionary instead of a pen. A small man, less than twelve inches tall, then translated the entire text into numbers; half of which don’t actually exist yet (although he assured me they would in time).