Collapsed in the middle of the carraige, screaming in pain, drawing the alarmed attention of even the most apathetic Piccadilly line commuters, that's how she started her week. Even whilst she was drowning in pain one thought managed to surface in mer mind: this must be how I die.

That was when a pair of wings tore through the skin of her back.

When I travel hours just to hold your hand, smell your hair, and spend a weekend in the endless dimension of your room. An alternate dimension where the window is a Tv, and the TV is a window. A dimension where time doesn’t stop, but neither does it flow: it grows. And our new love fills the space it leaves.