in my room, I sleep about eight feet from four bare glass panels and the clouds. We ran out of money at the end of the build, there was nothing left for steel tracks or blinds. And then we got used to the light and the moon and mostly stopped thinking about shades. I like it when the storms set in at this time of year and beging pounding away, with me safe under the duvet. Like Melville said, you need a cold toe outside the covers to fully understand your greater comfort. When it really blasts there’s a whistle under the zinc sheets and the wind yanks at the open window. It came on strong last night, I woke with the touch of cold rain on my face, snuck across the room by the gale. And this skystreak droplet waved away the smoke of a dream I was riding, one I get a lot, with me lying shivering under blankets in a lampless campervan, parked up in a mountain pass layby, alone, long after midnight, a blizzard all around, worsening and already banked over the wheels. A heavy snow has its own sound, a twist on silence. And then there’s a gentle tap at the strip of window above my head. I sit up and put out my fingers to slide the fabric back on its runner, to see who’s summoning me out there from the quiet.