In brighter months I’d wake under a metal gaze glinting red against blue, stood skeletal and precarious over the back garden. Car-sized stacks were bound together and swung in a nauseous arc: their reflections sliding in glossy plural across a street of bedroom windows like synced-up TVs in a shop display.
You know when you’re on a roundabout you feel the weight of your head swell if you lean out? You hold out an arm and the whole world drags at it like the air trying to solidify. It’s the moment you step back onto constant ground that you lurch out of joint.
Today an entire block of flats materialised on my street. Mute shock of only just noticing something that’s been there for a long time. Low and dense in red brick, a surly posture. It declares its name in chrome sans-serif: APEX HOUSE. I suppose even names are relative.
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