Not even 6 am and you’ve done a day’s spilling: first a glass of water on the rug, then a steaming mug of coffee over the bedstead. Your early bird vitality vouchers must have expired. You think the pint-sized delta in search of an ocean pretty (until it’s sunken), later picture an array of perfectly curved mirror panes with rounded edges (dimensions variable), laid out on a gallery floor; and, suspended from the ceiling, a circling flock of files and folders, wings wide, bulging with letters from the DWP. The splotches of Machu Picchu Ground on pillows, sheet, duvet, fail to fire up the muse once more. Brown! Mattress! Soaked! Depending how tired you are you start remedial action right away or try a snooze while stains seep. You like their smell. In the evening you snort your sleeve.