The aspic hush of afternoon descends and so we sit reminding ourselves of one another as the evening splinters light into the surface of our eyes from which invisible snails leave trails of custard and honey in their travels to corners of smiles. The mountain goat is rattling his stony hooves against the fringe of dreams again. Is humour a kind of colourless gas? I promise I won't change the topic, I know it's too late but don't you see the streets are full of teeth? Look, the snowploughs make brief heaps of them, then clatter on to heaven with the taste of winter plums.