I dreamt that our kitchen cupboards were no longer kept in logical order. This was cause enough to welcome heartbreak. The drawback of a dream, like unrequited love, is that only one person can occupy it at a time. Luckily, I awoke to the increasingly warm embrace of economic latency—and, from out back, the vacuous clucking of suburban chickens with secular names. Such as Warren, such as Clive. The cat that lived here before us paws the door, bringing with it presents: soft-drink cups, empty protein shakes, plastic straws. Sure of our refuse, his glittery collar reads: WILD FOREVER. Adornment, diamantes, formal splendour. In the distance, over Kyeemagh, a silhouette dances against the dissolving dawn. I’ve never known what to make of breakfast.