To each dimension, as, with the flight of time, it disappears from view, we should say: now you're becoming the Past. But possibly at a critical - perhaps fortunate moment - we may meet again on a new dimension and once again you may become the Present.
PAUL KLEE

1.
Black clouds move slowly across the November sky. Humidity drains all the colour from my room. And this in November. I should've shaved. The salt of perspiration mixed with stubble is uncomfortable. I should've shaved, my face feels lined and pale.

Rain begins to clatter on the windows. Thunder, wind. Above the elements I hear voices drinking in the night. Footsteps up the fire escape steps. Laughter in the hallway. A door is opened closed. Bolts are drawn.

I press my face hard against the window and see her standing alone on the street corner. There are other eyes watching her. With few exceptions drivers slow their vehicles and glare. Why is she standing there? Waiting for a friend, a taxi, another lover? Is she contemplating crossing the street to arrive at my door soaked to her skin? I suddenly have the urge to force open the window and call out to her, invite her to join me in my airless room. She glances up in my direction and I fall back in shadow.
 
 

2.
Waiting by the wall watching groups of uniformed men performing their duties; observing pigeons gobble crumbs families have dropped on their Sunday outings: She hasn't been in this city long enough to know why it is divided. She watches him walking across the square, recognises him just as she did three days earlier in the bar. She knew he'd had a hit single several years ago. Success has evaded him since. Still, it serves to impress certain people, he thinks as he approaches her waiting by the wall dividing this city he can hardly call home himself. There are other places. Neither of them have limited horizons.

Hello. Waiting long.

You could say so.

He kisses her lightly on the nose.

Why is there a division here? she asks noticing not only does the wall separate one part of the city from another but it also splits the sky. An infinite barrier stretching into the fourth dimension of heaven. 

Why do they do these things?

He offers her a cigarette. 

I don't know.

They walk off together, leaving the wall behind.
 
 

3.
Earlier in the day I had been away from my window, from the shadow. I was returning home after some investigations that had led me nowhere. It was very early, the day barely begun. Only the empty bottles and plastic wrappings of wasted night littered the streets. And from the cafes that were open weak electric beats emanated. The pier at the end of the street was barely visible, obscured by the fine drizzle falling. 

As I walked I became aware of fast clipping high heeled footsteps gaining on me. Before I had time to turn and see who was following, a woman brushed passed, quickening her pace. Her life seemed to depend on flight. I thought I recognised her. I thought she was familiar to me, but then everyone is. No, I decided, she wasn't anyone I really knew, at least not as yet. I was tempted to follow her. Perhaps I could be of assistance. 

I crossed to the opposite side of the road and gazed at the doorway through which she'd fled. I struck a match to light a cigarette, my face momentarily warmed by the glow, the wind blowing a cool south westerly across the bay.
I looked up and saw the woman staring down at me from a second floor window. Slowly a pair of hands crossed her face and covered her eyes. She remained motionless at the window. I let out a sigh. There was certainly nothing for me here. Another false lead.

I threw my cigarette into the gutter and continued on my way home, my feet getting wetter and wetter even though I’d used a thick piece of cardboard to cover the gaping holes in my crushed rubber soles.
 
 

4.
White sentinels perform black duties ever watchful, thought and action is recorded over and over. The old tapeworm eats for pleasure, bloated, eat on.

Sometimes I feel hands on my left shoulder, sometimes the weight shifts to my right, suddenly. Suddenly an old tape re-plays worming around a side, spinning a disc, this song. It was night and the streets shone empty, there are no more descriptions to play back.

On a street corner you shed some tears, broke into laughter, then vanished. A mist rose enveloping me hiding all traces of you. If I spoke my words solidified on the fog's breath. I stood there immovable, abandoned, later and later. Morning came and the sun broke through melting all memory.

I stole the design from Daedalus to face the Minotaur, I sang rushing 'round head turning in every direction, and then I found myself home. I shut the front door breathing deeply. You were on the edge of our bed putting on your shoes, preparing to leave. I threw off my jacket acting like nothing had changed. I stole the plans from Daedalus to face the Minotaur, I said. You broke into laughter, shed some tears and vanished.

And now I'd like to perform a number for you. I wrote it a few years ago. I hope you like it. The song is entitled; 'Facing the Minotaur'.

You sit at a table, alone, the candlelight flickering in time to your breath. A warm dry night, near Tunis. You sense my purpose and like a deer in a clearing, you vanish before I can draw my bow. I'm left here centre stage humming another blues I half remember:

I believe, 
I believe my time ain't long.
 
 

5.
The knocking wakens me, hollow rapping at my door. I am crumpled and bent in the late afternoon. Another knock, more insistent. I screw my face up in my hands, wipe away restless, dream filled sleep. Who is it? I stumble across the room to answer the door.

The visitor, leaning uneasily against the wall, is tall and gaunt, moustached with slick back thinning black hair. In fact he is very tall and angular, drunk to his eyeballs and slurring in a whisper I can't quite make out.

Latin American dancing...I was the greatest...you know that? This was in Europe mind you...dancing.

I manage to conjure up a few motley palm trees and conga rhythms in my mind. And?

I politely smile and step back closing the door. Before I can the visitor thrusts a card into my hand.

A woman...she was here earlier...she called earlier and gave me this card to give to you... I was taking cocktails at the time...on the front patio...she looked...she looked like someone I once knew in Bohemia...wonderful girl that one...everyone knew her...in the biblical sense...if you know...

A lewd grin creeps onto the dancer's lips as he mumbles his message. I peer at him trying to focus. The dancer grins back. He has nothing more to say. He executes a clumsy pirouette and shuffles back to his room.

La cu-ca-ra-cha La cu-ca-ra-cha la-la-la-la-la-la-la. La cu-ca-ra-cha La cu-ca-ra-cha la-la-la-la-la-la-la.
 
 

I finger the card. There is a phone number and her name scribbled on the back. The Ace of Hearts fades on the front. She'll never let me forget. I prowl towards the fridge to fix an amber cocktail of my own. 
 
 

6.
Sitting in a bar watching groups of young women laugh and smoke only they know what, ordering house white in thick tumblers, recognising the old hits, Karlos and the Distractions, ladies and gentlemen.

I never thought I'd hear bossa nova played so badly.

They order another drink. A few of the more energetic patrons take to the floor and dance. Other people gaze into empty space. Even when their eyes catch a glimpse of someone or something potentially interesting their faces turn away. 

I feel somewhat separate...you know?

You'll get used to it.

The bauble hanging from the ceiling spins sending round cheap splatters of light. The band stops for a break. Everyone sits down breathless.

It's all disjointed. I can't explain.

Look. He points to the entrance where some people he barely knows stand. These 'friends' have come to see a band they like, but Karlos and the boys are on instead. They've been misinformed. 

We came to see El Troppo and the Heart Bandits.

They all order glasses of house white and look at each other. Later a conversation begins to develop but someone else joins the party, someone knocks a glass over, supper is announced, the Distractions start up again this time minus Karlos.

Either we dance or we leave.

They dance, then leave. The cool night air dries their sweat, awakens his senses, chills her reason.
 
 

7.
This sultry weather breeds buzzing reminders of what shall inherit the earth after the rain. I've murdered so many insects.  I have no reason to believe in the necessity of insects at all. They are minute wind up annoyance toys like clockwork, they move like random clockwork maddening in their persistence, their tiny tinny cries radiating from infinitesimal speaker systems, electrical. Even as I speak some bash the doors and walls. Others clatter at the window attempting to gain entry and escape the rain.

I light up a cigarette. Anything my nerves. It's the odd hours I'm keeping, sleeping, dreaming, waking, not knowing day or time, following too many 

leads up wrong and winding tracks and talking to myself like I thought the story up. Still, I hide everything to deceive the trigger happy. And there is no-one following me though what sounds like high heeled footsteps echo from the direction I've come in. I stop, frozen in my own shadow. This is really getting me nowhere, thinking I'm pursued, hunted, wanted for what? A crime I'd own up to if I'd only committed it. It's all these odd hours I'm keeping, sleeping, dreaming and waking, not knowing day, time or place. I should shave at least, this sweat mixed with stubble is uncomfortable.

Another motionless dawn beckons me. Except for the interlude at the door, no-one, nothing, a whole day gone. I sit in the glow of four cans numbed. I hum Neo Samba Mia in remembrance of Latin American dancers. Playing with the Ace I say her name sounding ludicrous. Her eyes look in mine briefly as if she didn't recognise me at all.
 
 

8.
Waiting in the hallway watching him fumble for his key in the dark passed curfew time, the tower guard's spot-light spins sending a splatter of light through the windows exploding her shadow, startling her eyes. The door opens into his room.

Coffee?

She kicks off her shoes in response. Perhaps.

Do you remember standing by the wall?

What an effect it had had; the wall.

The kettle whistles. 

Karlos sure played bossa nova badly.

Why is there a division here?

Look, you'll get used to it.

He points to the open door where on the threshold his 'friends' stand in silent greeting. She spins around and is unable to stop herself from falling to the floor.

Why do we do these things?

He bends over her and offers to help her up.

Their time will soon be over.
 
 

9.
I see her lying on our bed. A dull light sways with the slight breeze passing through a broken paned window. I listen as music wafts through the broken pane. Or is it coming from another place or another time. Charlie Parker a late night blow staggering and swaying like light and wind combined as one. A  dizzy moment near Tunis where the waters reflect minaret spires. I am overtaken and tap my foot.

Look at her lying on the bed. A glimmer of light plays on her cheeks flushed red. And a brandy bottle lies empty clinking against a glass, its companion on the floor. 

The drink made her talk. The whole scene appears before me. Like an interrogation. I stagger and stumble before her holding onto an imaginary horn, pretending to blow her away. She clutches a magazine and uses it for cover, to protect herself from my illusory attack. The brandy bottle lies empty and there are no kisses left. She lies on our bed hoping sleep will retake her. I move towards her. She is finally asleep. I draw up a chair and straddle it. I know the rest of the scene. I am word perfect.
 
 

10.
One memory of you for a moment 
crystal clear, then 
within a second
dreams are in slivers.

One memory of you for a moment 
held whole 
then
within a breath
thoughts shatter.

There is no comfort offered in fragments 
one memory of you 
and I'm blinded.
 
 

11.
The rain has shifted, the wind has blown its last storm breath. We lie together on our bed covered by a woollen blanket. I am awake listening to the dawn. Only the dull thump thump thump of a record endlessly playing its centre resounds in my mind. My body had burned up another night. No rest.
I half sit up leaning on my elbows and roll my neck to unlock sore muscles, stretched nerves. I fall back on the pillow and rub my stubbled face. I reach over and touch her half exposed shoulder. She lies beside me still. Still...
The natural light of morning enters softly through the gaps in the curtains washing down all colours to grey.

Eventually I know I have to move. I have to leave, this much is clear, I will have to go. I edge myself off the bed so as not to disturb her lying peacefully. I have drained her dry. 

I freeze before my right foot hits the floor. A dog barks loudly nearby. A truck steals off and passes. A car starts up and explodes. I must shave. I remember. I must shave.

She turns and stirs but does not awaken.

'Softly,
as in a morning sunrise
the light of love comes stealing
into a new born day'.

Whose voice is it? Where have I heard it before.

'Flaming,
with all the glow of sunrise
a burning kiss is sealing
the vow of all betrayed'.

My ears are failing me. The peculiar fog that separates me from the world descends. 

'For the passions that thrill love
and lift you high to heaven
are the passions that kill
love
and let you fall to hell
so ends each story'.

There is nothing left to think. On the floor, beside the bed, the empty bottle clinks against its companion, a glass, as the rumbling first train rattles passed.
 
 

12. Epilogue
Alone in my room, the hatches battened down, sanctuary from the storm that broke tonight over these western lands. A moth's dark shadow flitters across my blank page. Ants crawl ceaselessly up the walls. I swat a mosquito buzzing near my ear. 

What can I say to her with the elements howling and the insects swarming? I sit alone as I always sit. The chair gives a little and creaks. I can hear her as she shuffles around the place, moving and checking each room. The hallway light goes on.

The thought occurs to me that I could be experiencing a night long passed or even a night light years in the future. But my speculations make no difference to her as she wanders down her own path at a languid pace. Sometimes, however, we meet at the crossroads, suitcases in our hands. We briefly spoke about one such meeting at the kitchen table this morning.

Last night you were at the crossroads. A storm raged. A shadow loomed beside you as you checked directions. And I whispered a warning; Beware the Shade's presence, but you didn’t hear.

What was I thinking?

About a misty, unformed place and the spirits that haunt there. 'Terra Incognito', you said, 'Tartarus'. And then you turned to face me and your eyes glimmered as if you were someone else.

And on the conversation went as we sipped Orange Pekoe tea.

The hallway light is turned off. What can I say to her at this moment? Hasn't everything been covered? Rain falls incessantly, her pastel drawings peel off the walls, humidity playing its part. I sit illuminated by one flickering candle. I'm certain she won't recognise me when she enters...if she enters.