The life, suspended, lives nonetheless inside, its mind in the past, its present; my mind in the present, my past.

There are clouds, in flux from grey to white, in the blue that the grassed hill climbs into, some walls of stone and little paths mark it, near the trees, for settlement.

“You’re a… spirit. Or a stroke…”

“Or a girl.”

“Or a Cheshire Cat.”

An accordion and a clarinet once danced together before a set of drums, and the aural ghost of their exchange is frenzied as it floats around the café room.