Now I feel as if I am drowning in my own head. I can’t really move and I can’t eat and I can’t think properly. There is just me and Bubble the cat in this house and it feels like we are sealed off from everything and everyone else in Paris and everywhere. Normally it helps but today when I talk to even nearest and most dearest I can feel the strings that bind me to them and to reality becoming thinner and thinner as if they’ll break. I can hear the traffic in the street but it’s like strange noises from another star. We are all alone. Like as if we were whirling through space. Strobos is the Greek word for the ‘act of whirling’. That’s where the name for strobe lights comes from. It feels as if we are whirling in sick seizurish shooting lights in space. Quite exotic, really. Bubble is completely unaware of it, she is snoring in her red chair. She is unaware of it because it is all in my head. But that is the only place I can be. Surely the wee thing that is inside another part of me will decide to leave of its own accord. Surely I am not a desirable residence. I wonder what it would be like inside my head if that happened. I would know it was my fault because why would a wee thing want to stay whirling through space. It has probably had enough of that, even from before it was here in me, who knows. Maybe everybody who is, once sought sanctuary from the dip and spin of infinity. Cos we don’t know it’s oblivion, and equally well as something good it could be a dangerous, fraught place to escape from and maybe this is the escape route. Except mine has escaped into an unquiet place. There are lots of other unquiet places to gestate but they are not my concern. Surely it will leave. I would feel terrible that I hadn’t provided a safe quiet place for it to be. But it would be more like manslaughter than murder, I think.