Another Friday night. A mile or so away a boy will be watching chunks of kebab dribble mouth to paving down a pissy alley. He doesn’t know we’ve all been him, and it wouldn’t help. Some are working night shifts, some are alone, always more are cocooned in doors, at least until daybreak; and you are restless beside rest, beside recharging, remoulding desires, as the sycamore heaves in the lamplight. Do not pretend you have done all you could for anyone. And try not to breathe too loud, and listen as she snores rabbit snores against you, and rainbursts crackle on glass. Never stop listening.