Tonight I am scouring for details but cannot see them. Rain has fallen all week. There are low clouds above the table – plastic bags, white and grey. The opposite chair is empty, but slightly back from the table. Just enough room for a thin, ghostly companion. Very serious it seems. What could the ghost possibly have to say to me? Empty wooden fruit bowl. The sense of yellow light. The music of Gaziantep. What was it that you said? Sorry, don’t let me interrupt you. I am talking to myself. Speaking softly. Just small talk really. The tumult of the clouds – open organs, but containing nothing, floating lightly on the detritus of numerous weeks. Better let this stuff collect than to imagine some kind of pure state, some simple table in which there is nothing but surface. Were this desert to actually exist then what would the ghost and I possibly have to say to one another? I am sleeping in the arms of forgotten lovers.