A football stadium.

There are rows of benches and the grass on the pitch is bald where we stand; patiently, bellies knotted and growling.

On either side, climbing up from the dug outs, we are separated – wheat and chaff, home or away – grumbling linesmen scribbling, bored, on contracts laid out civically.

Stamped. Filed. Ushered off on stiff legs.

Even the children have fallen quiet.

This was the dream, a breakfast of eunuchs, which set me tumbling. Sprawled on the floor at 3 AM.

Wheezing with Olympian effort.

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Hello. I am still breathing, if you wondered at this latest absence. I needed to step back from the drop awhile, the empty space between the rails, to let the game play out. It has not been pretty for