The idea was: lose your identity, cast off your stable self, induce a mist at your edges and enter the world more completely, as somebody else.
Enter the world as the rain, if you have to.
Write a novel to fit inside a window frame, write your best sky.
Morning, when the bimah light from the ark lifted up from behind the sea to backlight the shorebirds. On the roof of his attic aerie, Johnny Coma pressed the pencil lead into the soft cream of his notebook. Down below, the night echoes had dimmed in party central, and all the cocktails of the universe had gone back into their bottles for a libation shluf. The sea-bleached wooden wings of the shops were closed in slat feathers. The empty neighbourhood felt alive to a writer looking for magnetic luck.
The sun rose. The after-party light
