My storyteller once told me that his Maker came to him in three days of throbbing colours and garish music and lay his heart out on two lists of pros and cons and showed him the way forward. We were in a tent and sleep would not come so I watched his stories in full colour like projections onto the inside of our home through the gaps in my eyelashes. This came to my head as I writhed in clammy sheets at four in the morning days after looking for illuminations in his ceiling and wondering if I was a little further down that list pencilled in, nine thousand days before my heart pulsed first. It came to me for a reason again but I was too busy swimming in circles above my head wondering why I felt such a nostalgic shade of blue to make sense at the time. I need recapping sessions like this, whilst he makes omelettes and stories for me to digest and type, for sense to come.