Noticing I completely switch off when I travel in a bus or car, train or plane, the world fizzes by and I mute. In Galway Avril Stanley would drive to Connemara at high speed after the gigs on fridays or the one time Stephen Frick drove me through the Swiss alps at one in the morning, the blue of the moon bounced back in our cold faces. I slow down as it speeds up, the 50 metre spaced lamps constant beyond the white guide lines and the interrupting street signs.
Layer that with laquer black and the millions of shut eyes and trancey you become. There’s the highway carriageway wet under the rain water and dew of winter, the tungsten bulbs golden and holding.
My long bed with its open arms, silent waits. My little eyes peek the stars and the future sleep. I heard the day creeping away.