Black white, a dark night. Exterior of an interior. A man sweats because he’s tightrope walking from one block of flats to another. Harder than it seems. Harder at night. Harder when monsters of the night want your soul, books and wardrobe. But it’s okay, it’s just one of those nightmares I keep having. Hot and cold, put on night robe. White paper falls from black sky, so high. I pull a white naked woman into my room; do I dream? She’s cold (I’m told); put her to bed. Knock knock on my white door – bailiffs or burglars? – no time to snore. They silently steal my white objects. My, I’m cold. They go out and my wardrobe is but coat hangers and cactus. Ha. I can’t sleep in my dark room. It’s too soon. A film on my wall, so tall. Painted light, so bright, so bright. Leading where…? I stare.