In Dahab, time ceases to be. In Botswana little kids move their feet like magical beings. He looks up at me mid dance, flicks his wrist and flips his eyes. I can’t keep up. But I’m pretty damn cute trying all the same and he knows it. He’s 8. I’m 29. Its spring again I think. Back to back. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Who knows? His name is Sage. He’s an angel in disguise. His disguise is my face. I stop. I’m breathing like a maniac. I can’t catch up. I can’t stop smiling. I start walking home. I can’t stop laughing. There’s a pup that won’t stop following me around. I call her Rox for short. She’s got a stripper name. There’s a cutie at my place. Her place, but I’m a thief. I take everything that is not mine. I call her Shorty for short. She chopped off all her hair. She watches me cook. We scream bloody murder when we remember what we see. We giggle until we piss ourselves. We fall asleep on the street. We remember pissing ourselves. We remember everything. We remember our own piss and shit and we play with it. We play like children. I teach her how to dance like Sage. She teaches me how to wear a tough face. ‘Ha! I’m a child, Shorty. I don’t care how old you say I’ll get to be. I only get tough in the face when it’s absolutely fucking necessary. I only tough it out when it’s for me. See?

            ‘See what?’

            ‘See how I took a story and made her me. Now I’ll I have to do is move. And poof! Like magic. She is by my side. P is a figment. She is the childlike spirit that remains. Bratty little shit. P is so fucking brave! A replication of all the fear I was forced to believe A kingdom in my guts A throne A queen A warrior A dead baby bird in my bloody hands. I bleed freely. There isn’t an ounce of shame in my entire fucking body. I am all that is alive.’