I return to the scene of crime, a hound dog nose fixed to the contours of half-awake thought for something did happen in those years, a decade ago, even if there is no knife on the cobble stones, and no huge shadows on the walls painted by dawn-blush, to solve the puzzle of waking sweats, which unlocks as soon as the eye opens but taints the days with the dread of failure: there I am forgetting all the answers to tests I am supposed to take; there I am clothed in the cloak of shame; there I am as this swollen monster with a whale-tongue; there I am in a room smelling of sperm blurring the lines between pleasure and pain; there I am, the aspiring nice person turning pathological, a butcher dealing exclusively in pounds of heart-flesh; there I am under a red sheet of fire but as cold as Lenin mummified in his Red Square glass-box; there I am in a landscape - a suspension bridge in fog, to be precise - where I don't really know who I am or who he is, he who dreams those spectral dreams for me.