I’m a musician. I’ve written something that sounds like Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” album. Every time a stage version is put on, I turn up to join in, even in the smallest town.
I walk down a street, conducting the music coming from a nearby village hall. A policewoman pulls up in a car, and asks what I’m doing. I explain that I’m conducting. She looks concerned.
I wake up on a blue bed. My memory is confused. I ask the policewoman not to leave me, but she’s already gone. I’m inside, but I feel like I’m outside, vulnerable, exposed.
There’s a chest of drawers inlaid with German writing. Inside I find a blue stick recorder. Playing it back, I hear my friends Steve and Louisa talking. I go downstairs. The room is full of my washing, hung out to dry on clothes horses.
My hair has grown long, I’ve been neglecting myself. I talk with Steve and Louisa, I’ve lost years to my insanity.