We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.

Dreams like these are highly symbolic and emotionally intense. Here’s a breakdown of common interpretations:

whats your name?

The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.


One of the birds shoots out of the tree.