Bjork is staying at my house, except we are in the Simpson’s house. She is staying with me for complicated reasons involving her tour bus breaking down and me saying I have a ticket to her concert, which I do not. She is living out of bags, and is very untidy. She is also smaller than I imagined. One night, she cannot sleep, and comes in to my room to talk. I do not recall what we discuss, but at the end she lies down on the bed and starts singing. The song makes me cry. I stare out the window at clouds rolling by to try and hide this fact from her. Later we are outside the house, which apparently sits on stilts above a tangled semi-dark swamp, populated by the detritus of previous – none gone – civilisations. I tell her I don’t really have tickets to her concert. She knows this, and offers me £20.
Random bits of construction and destruction...assorted shorter and shorter fiction lets call it. Mainly from being asleep.