I'm looking for a house to live in but I don't know if I can live with myself. It's tricky. Damn my moods, the forgetfulness. Hanging a sign outside my skull: for rent. Mexican dances for the dead. Forget them. Shelves lined with mix-tapes, coffee pot forever mouldy. If it's all the same, I'd rather squat on grass. Those shirts from the late 1980s we hoarded, that paisley. A cask from last week's costume parties. On a whim I visited my grandmother, then I applied for a flat I'd never seen and was successful. I'm moving in next week. Utilities connect themselves, off-peak.