Winter sun floods the kitchen early, as though the flat was designed with breakfast in mind. I’m grilling bread in a stainless steel pan, for lack of a toaster, and I’m boiling water in it, too, for lack of a kettle. 

Eggs, jammy, and cherry tomatoes on the truss. I didn’t wash them – I don’t want to be clean anymore. All of my problems came from cleanliness. After cleanliness, just living is a relief, and I clutch my bread, and I reach for the olive oil. I’m relishing the small tomatoes bursting. The world got clean and I assimilated, but I want to surrender to this neuroses.

So I’m walking the trail. Everywhere is teeming with bolted basil and winter sun. The rail nearby is closed, but today a freight train passes, slowly, rumbling. 

People write love songs for cities. I’m listening to one – ‘Beirut, Beirut’ – the refrain is somber, as if something important has gone missing but no one remembers what. I’m writing a love song too, though I haven’t lost anything. Radishes, vinegar. Sardines in a red and yellow tin. My bag is still heavy.

Soon spring will descend to split these thoughts like oil and water. Life will stir, and I’m setting the table again, waiting for the birds to sing. They know love has no answer - they know to forget the question. 

Listen! ‘It is time, it is time, it is time.’