Tonight, the fiftieth night, the night I had no need to write, the night beyond the limit of what was required, I cannot help but notice that I have not hung out my washing. It is there on the chair, wet inside a white laundry basket. Earlier this evening, I looked across the IGA car park towards a wooden fence and some trees. The moon was already above them. I wondered where it was heading. Last night, before the moon was quite full, I imagined an endless series of Christians being thrown to the lions. No matter their terror, no matter their sad composure, their little heads exploded inside the jaws of the lions. They were gone like grapes. And those left were mercilessly slaughtered with barbaric weapons thrown from the crowd. Only when all the Christians were dead – every doomed group of adults and children, every lone individual – did the audience come to recognize the terrible wrong that had occurred. At that point the dead were offered a legal reprieve and the moon rose above the stadium like the fantasy of real estate.