I find it all profoundly poetic, bordering on the limits of everything prophetically odd and deep and disturbing; my nights render by memes yet to come, through a forbidden funnel through her dreaming skull. Her mind is the silhouette of my dance, whilst high in a dissociative state. Where we don’t have windows in our homes, but instead carve holes in the concrete of our prison cells - made of the delusions of your next doors’ neighbours. My city is not of this world, but of something before.