through the irregular pentagon. There’s enough turf for me to stretch out my corpus and feel the Earth on its marble-roll through the Universe. I’m a man peering through fog when I look back on more confident times, when I thought the world was a great game, there to be unpicked, roamed about and mastered. Now I fret about my fridge, whether I can get it gurgling into life again. It’s been marooned flat dead in the living room for a full year. If I can reanimate the wirings I can have a cold Spaten later. Then I’ll read some Chandler and get my hope back.
