small things, not to be lost
Twenty quiet, near-black seconds before a fluorescent tube winks into life. One or two strobes of half-intense light flare the room into view, before everything suddenly becomes illuminated in stinging white light. | Loosening an unmarked postage stamp from a square of envelope and watching it cut clean through the water in the kitchen sink; not floating, but knifing through the water and then helicoptering down to the bottom. | Finding and retrieving a white plastic fork from where it had fallen, behind the desk. | A pigeon limping around on the pavement a few feet in front of where I walk; a knot of scarred flesh at the base of its leg like a ball of wax around the end of a dying candle. | Blowing little scrapes of foil onto the floor. | Reading my name, written by someone else’s hand: the writing seems familiar but it is my own name that I almost don’t recognise.