Bobby Gillespie was born a couple of streets from here

Phone lights. Night trains. Bird song and my eyes trying to find the first light. All as it is. My dreams — a bureaucracy lost in an art gallery full of mediterranean bean soup. The day out to find food and fucks. Post box infinity. Cumulus. Fucks loss. Steel. Glasgow. As it is. Flesh.

I look at human clothes and dress like a human. A human mirror with human eyes. Clear sky. Cold but good. Spot a crimson rosella. There are parakeets this far north. Watch it flit, flutter and hop between trees before it disappears. Bobby Gillespie was born a couple of streets from here — I don’t think that has anything to do with the birds. I move on to the shops where I want to buy — coffee and nappies.

Aoife arrives back from Ireland. We catch up. She tells me about the funeral. We talk about the funeral. We drink tea and eat brack that she brought back.