There is an electronic moon attached to the side of my ‘house’. It emits a low hum and is neon white. It might sound funny but it’s not. At night when I have the blinds pulled to an appropriately 70s-cop-interrogation-room angle, the iced light scans across my body and I feel like nothing but a collection of meaty braille being read by an indifferent finger.

In these moments I am sure I am the calm-in-the-face-of-sheer-madness protagonist of a Haruki Murakami novel – yet to realise her massive inherent power, yet to realise her breasts are perky and perfectly shaped like small Mt. Fujis shining brightly in the sun, yet to realise the other half of the universe is some shy math teacher with a natural six-pack.

Beneath this indifference I feel like a glistening, wet creature. But it is more apt to say that I feel less like any living thing than I do a state. I am a voiceless want. An ache on the sheets. Maybe the metaphor of a sprig of something organic in a dark place frequented only by slightly magical cats, pushing its way up toward a pinprick of light far above – whether it’s a star or the exit outta here – the sprig never knows.

At the end of a Haruki Murakami novel we are not sure if we are sure or not. There seems to be a form of resolution but we were never clear in the first place which side of the door represented internal or external reality. And in some way this huge planetary wing mirror attached to my ‘house’ pushes me further into and further out of the world.

The space in my room breathes and on the exhale it bends everything including my body and yet-to-be-realised-perfect-breasts in a concave sheet out toward the soupy night. I do not know where my internal organs end and where the neon street signs begin, but it doesn’t matter – it’s all sexy. All red. All ruby. All wet. All glistening. All some kind of entrance or exit sign.