I dreamt last night of nebulae in my hands and dragons in my pocket. Sleep cannot be trusted as new portals open and it is not always pleasant or warranted what you glimpse through them. The stars as grains of lost thought. Maybe. Trains of granulated think matter. Perhaps. I am a Spaceman and I stride through the ether talking to faeries dancing with sirens and berating the imps that wish to disconnect my air supply. The light bulb is turned on, but there is nothing there. When I was young I would walk cliff tops contemplating launches and teasing the gulls about their chains and plotting schemes of domination of the galaxy with the stoats frogs and squirrels. Now I just carve out urban caves. The dreams have gone. The nightmares are friends. Watercolours in the rain.