at four, no traffic hum from the ring road, no gurgling drunks taxi-rolling home. And thousands of lonesome lockdown insomniacs like myself following the phrases. I try to steal back into sleep before the sun comes around, sleep a thick-walled sanctuary from care and the sameness of the waking hours. My dreams are all adventures. When the glare glows too bright I make coffee and set out into the quiet roads for my dash to the shops. And then I work my chores and try to tap a few lines. I read Chekhov for clues on exile, Freud and Hoffmann to chart the uncanny alley we wander now.
