The 30% one or the 50% one? & I am lay flat on the ground. I lowered myself there. Onto my front. Hard cold Berlin floor. & old dust. Thick crumbles of it. All appealingly so. Mingling with His Innocent’s blunder-skirt of mine. Flap, flap, flap. Breathe a laugh. In soundless graphics interchange format. I am swimming in the compromise. I am floating on the bottom ceiling. On the surface between us & the pit (the centre of the world & the centre of my world). An angel or a chalk outline. Print trail of powder. Paws are claws. The cat will be scratching his way out 2 days later. Scratching at himself. Scratching at plaster. Patches tell the story that we can only wear bat-wings to dream. I dreamt PM outside. I realed AM inside. With the ball of light that morning. An artificial SAD. Under a textured upwards ceiling. It casts its float of omen shadows. Dance, dance, dance. You had to sit on the concrete floor then. Head against a gallery wall. Remember it. Or fixate it. Drip into sleeping on the marble floor next. I drifted holding it to mark its bricks. Sushi flying in my face. It put its hands around my entrance lube tube. What I wouldn’t do for another? Shot, shot, shot.