I used to dream of theft. I was a lot younger, at school, and it wasn't me doing the stealing. I was the child who was more adult, more aware and travelled. I was the legend, the scruffy closed-eyed kid on film, listening to the confession of some scared girl, with all the exquisite compassion of greater knowledge, the sense of tender, godly, caring power over someone who intimidated me completely. I haven't forgotten yet what it felt like. Listen, I have an idea for us both. Wrap up in thick fabric, twisted, scratching wiry hessian, bound with cheap rope, lined with silk. If I fall, the silk presses itself gently against my skin. The outermost layer tears a little, gets damaged, and bits start to shred and fall where I'm treading. It's coarse and itchy: cloth is too soft a word, but cloth feels good under foot, torn rough cloth under my feet, more matted pieces of useless cloth, layers of it, inch on inch. We should lie down. We can roll in hessian, scratch into each of our backs a lumpy red pattern on pink, springing blood to the touch. 1995