Ten hours from London and it’s already a dream I’ve woken from. Every half an hour or so I’ll remember it with that familiar sick jolt, like the one between consciousness and sleep when you feel like you’re falling. Every half an hour I get the feeling I’m forgetting it.
Some turgid feeling lingers about my throat, making it hard to breathe. I want to know how they are, everybody who breathes their hot, turbulent life into our home. Their precise, individual bodies, the crazies they have in their heads, every one of them. I miss the hugs, the headlocks, the hand-clasps.
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