The windows clouded, the air turned tropical as our talk misted the glass. Trees were dripping with rain. The heater breathed its hot breath onto the glass as a hill made a downward slope that reached a sharp bend and we rolled into a village with antique petrol pumps. The clock face in the tower, above the slate roofs shone like a moon. Black hands pointed the hour, suggested a time that, of course, is always now. Artificial thunder made spacey sounds – a jet plane loaded with passengers holding cloudy conferences. The watcher on the wall picked up these messages through the headphones collected from far off dreamscapes, faint sounds that gathered to haunt the morning, flesh the morning's bones with the momentum temporarily achieved the preceding evening, the candles burning among the green water smell of graveyard flowers where one moment ends and another, as you soon shall see, begins.