I aint never seen anyone sleep like that, so still and wax, like a crumble with glass eyes – only I can’t see her eyes, can I, cause she’s sleeping. Is this how they sleep in fairyland? Up high off the floor, atop a soft thing only made for sleeping in. All rumpled in pillows and blankets, all buried, except for her nose to breathe through, except for her streaming hair. I want to touch her hair, but when I reach towards her the dog wuffles. She don’t wake or nothing, but I pull away all the same. I press my finger to my lips. ‘Shut-mouthed,’ I whisper. I look round the room. What a lot of surfaces she’s got, what a lot of things. Everything laid out as if it were precious, as if it were treasure. My eyes can’t stick to any of it, it’s like market when it’s all laid out, but there aint nothing you want. None of it aint worth looking at, not properly. Everything is treasure and nothing is, that’s what Andrew tells times he’s joined me at market.
