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The child loves to go to the park and pick up sticks. Like a dog, he will try to bring one impossibly long stick home, but he is 4 and by 4 o’clock he is getting tired. He still will not let go of one end. He totters to the car like this, at the carpark he is actually sleepwalking. I wake up, a wandering hermit crab slips back into its shell. Time concertinas, the mind plays tricks in too much light or dark. It’s 4 in the morning, I’ve been gripping the end of a twisted sheet. Strange, but I want to take it home.