I live near the airport now, on the top floor, and one of my favourite things is opening my window really wide (I had to fiddle with the mechanism to do this because I'm in university accommodation) and watching the planes go by while I have a cigarette and an espresso. At night it's calming watching the little coloured lights and hearing the low, distant murmur of the engines.

And what a flame it was, What a flame it might have been, Feeling it’s way around her Body, digging for feeling. Feeling it’s way to heaven In an unspiritual hole. Her candle made her cough, but kept the bedroom lit, with dullest glow of orange. Dusty, rotten orange. The candle made a mess, upon her bedside table. Puddles of ash, as the candle shrunk. Staining, dirty ash.