The third Sunday and you have moved the furniture around in your head so many times that there's nothing new to think. Your brain burns hot and broken, a computer fan, washed your hands to chapped slabs. Heard a radio programme say that the unicorn horns were brown tusks, the death toll beats, the bells outside go with no one ringing them. You miss your mother. The world whirrs like a computer fan. So the next right thing is to make your bed. The next right thing is to make lunch. The next right thing is to phone her. The next right thing is to find a future and believe it wholly. The next right thing is to make hope and to stoke it. To strike it against your bones, your breath until it catches fire.
By Phoebe Nicholson