It doesn’t take much to set fire to liquid manuscripts. Just a simple twitch of the wrist and a hand full of mug. Because anything is possible in a world populated by trickster gods, and the most absurd accidents can cause the greatest of tragedies.

There are three knuckle-sized indents dimpled into the face of my fridge. They are left behind from the punch I slammed there. The machine, an HP Mini Netbook, sits eviscerated on my desk, smelling of coffee, creamed and sugared. The hard-drive, like a futuristic lockbox of glass beads, lies beatless and unplugged next to its other organs. Charlo sits in his kennel, looking up at me with curious eyes, not understanding the situation, cocking his head for reassurance that none of my shouting, screaming, hair pulling, punching, and chaotic organ grinding has anything to do with him. And I’m stripping my clothes off, and kicking the bathroom door closed, dancing beneath a stream of hot rain to The Bee-Gee’s‘Tragedy’ which comes pouring from the angel harps of my Last.fm account.