A dull mind, a warm night. No sleep for the wicked. A drunk woman two doors over clawing at a friend's door. Let me in! I've slit me wrists! Obscenities at midnight. Police at midnight. Carried into an ambulance parked by the kerb, floodlights casting shadows like ghosts into gardens.

Two in the bath, with the bath going cold. Sitting and grinning, facing each other. The lap of the water, obscuring, hiding, flirting.

One says a joke, boiling away the water in the mind, hinting at things to come. The other pulls their legs up, knees touching the cheeks. A baby but from far from it.

Behind the other, just winking in without a sound, appears a huge vagina and in they go. Gone. Whip. Silent.

Sitting, grinning and alone, the one asks the eternal question: to be reborn or be consumed?

Drain water in the supermarket. It was the storm, they said. Happens every year. Workers barricaded themselves in aisles, armed with mops and buckets and folded out cardboard boxes. Patrons staring over mush into a forbidden land, submerged, hemmed in by cake boxes, cereal packets and yellow signs. Underneath them all, the dead with soaked hands. Pushing, listening and waiting.

Hunched over and naked, walking in the empty street. Warm night ruins distance. A bedroom window closed with heavy curtains. Edges are light, like morse code. A pattern of movement. Silence in the street.