The energy in me is brighter than a lightbulb, 92 watts to be precise. In the passive hamster-wheels of the excercise rooms the machines recognise – with great precision – my potential as an incendiary device. But safe places mean the only one left to galvanise me is myself. So too I feed on my own words, and plough back into me beautiful phrases never recorded. You gotta have trust in yourself, feed the subconscious with beauty so it becomes possible to dream. Trying to close the discrepancy between body and mind she is, who is singing and dancing (the movement of thought, the speed of air.) She is walking who we divided somewhere into a singing bird, caught and castrated up high, and the casuaris who takes the floor and opens your gut in one fell swoop. It is no dancer who tries to leap and land on broken feet.

There is a dance – and while I cover ground, the words’ll catch up with me.