Forgive me if I go astray, or do not. So much of each bright day is sunk in dreaming, mazy distraction fractally unspooling, attention splintering against attrition, you long for boozy rosiness to blossom or yoga session leave you luminously empty-headed. The yogi is unclean beneath his robes. The roses are advanced in fermentation. You picture headspace as a loft apartment, well-sunned, from which the cleaners have departed leaving a scent of lavender, a sheen on every surface, tranquilly awaiting yuppie tenants. Not this arrears- and rodent-ridden bolthole where fugitive and half-deranged you quiver or, worse, are quite at home, in sloven's Eden which no loss ever ransacked, the heaped papers aspiring to the ceiling, the floor a lava of cast-off underthings, even the very walls perspiring. The psyche, it is said, is unforgetting, a chiselled ledger, or a swizzled swirl of mingled waters, of which each drop drawn contains all others potently diluted, non-lethal cocktail from which clarity is not forthcoming, even at the point of dissolution.