Grey Pontypridd. Sky squeezes among the houses and draws density from the church steeple. The clock hands can only just be made out; five minutes to four. Roads are white, reflecting a film of water. Cars wade down the hill. Splashing through puddles. Insanity has fangs. I can barely think. I smell flashes of yellow the colour of lichen on stone. Hundreds of years growing in bitter soil. I hear people’s breath being taken away as they slide past on the wet pavement. There is a rhythm in my body, caught between sleep and being. Slapped like a fish. Voices soothe me. Edges creeping back and forth like curly hair. Rain macs, the water runs off. The smell of tiles and adhesive grout over and over like a motor. I push my thoughts into her and pull the iron bars closed. At the speed bump is a police woman, she is well built, black tights and a short black party skirt that hangs on the rail; a creaking frog. The floorboards move and the ratchet spanner is used as a hammer to bolt heads. In two hours time I will be woken, surrounded by garages and quick thinking. The taste of cornflakes and artificial mousse. Celebrity hair colourist like skid marks down the street.
–Benjamin F Jones
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