Support the babies' head.

She'd watched German cinema till noon and felt tormented by the dancing chicken. It's companion was making SOS notes instead of musical notes. She was still confused by the glass bowl television and a volt meter.

Out on the street she gathered up the cloud waste in her wool skirt and shoes and settled into a red skinned cow covering to stroke out women with disproportionate thighs or arms. Sweet chilli settled on her tongue for the duration of the afternoon; and in the cold, delayed evening with a four-layered glass window, she shifted impatiently across rumbling train rows.

She discussed ways to fill calendar pages, a washing dance of hot and cold water with powder, and whether the stitches held together the dog's wound. The pencil written response had arrived in the mail and had a similar taste to the cooking. The clock's ticking could no longer be heard over the reverberations of condemnation for the un-enlightened.

When she settled into bed, the air was carrying ghosts' body heat and she counted fire engines with rabbits driving to turn out the light.