The sky is blonde, its colour bleached down like this morning’s cereal in my stomach. The water jet, with a little help, rises and keeps on crashing the harder it soars. Its motto is always more. 

The city sutures itself around the moneyed lake. I love it here: the smell of honey and cow dung. To blend in I colour my hair. I breathe and breathe the starched air, until it starts to itch inside.