Under the dim cabaret lamp sat a young woman nursing a red wine. She sat alone, at her table for two, and concentrated on the tinkling pianos and sultry voices. Her consciousness fell into stage-lit sounds -music – and nothing more. You would never have guessed that she’d had a lover. Been a lover.

She’d spent 14 hours in this bed. Surrounded by clothes and empty bottles; surrounded by self-hate and unattached intimacy. She’d had him here out of sheer physical longing and an unconscious desire to be used. So she became the user. And when the alcohol had cleared her veins and the smoke had cleared the room, she left him sleeping amongst her belongings.

Outside, where it was cold, she staggered slightly as she walked. She sat in a park – alone, as she should be, waiting for the sun to rise and the fog to clear. And when the day began, nothing had changed, because nothing good does, so she went back to this bed and left her consciousness to sound.