There are these nights. When I walk in and out of rooms. Looking for my window. Water in a cloudy bottle of Slice, a shiny white tube of aloe vera skin cream, a lavender comb and two pink clips left in a hasty row on its ledge. Outside, a wan moon drifts in and out of puffs of charcoal cloud, one house away, the old airconditioner drips druggedly on asbestos and one rickshaw leans on the only other lamp post in the lane. In a bad dream, I just run into walls. Cold, hard and ochre.