In front of me is a net of lights that shine, making all of the kilometres of space between us look like a plate of glass that reflects the stars, or undulating inky water logged nothing, with holes in it that let in points of illumination. Caught in the net are thousands of voices, talking, laughing, lying, singing, screaming, sighing, groaning, gasping. And you are out there somewhere in my city, with your own grumble added to the throng.
You are probably striding about in streets full of people, where the lights turn the sky blue after dark, where the sky isn't so inky because the lights bunch together there, as if for warmth. A sea of people and possibilities is churning before me and I search for only you. You, a buoy or a predator.
I am standing on a hill, where the light is sparse. I am looking backwards. My feet are in grubby shoes, scuffing on gravel. Where I am standing, the ground is still and silent. But I feel as if a wave of water is shifting the sands beneath my toes.
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