First real rains in endless months, hammering timpani fingers against tin watering cans on my back doorstep. On the floor near my feet, a huntsman spider scrabbles against the walls of an upturned glass, legs frantically thrashing along to the tinkling outside. A suitably wet crescendo for the land that forgot it was an island, denied itself rainfall and greedily turned its grass to gold.

Prowlers stay inside on sodden nights like this, so I shall sleep easy, knowing I’ll see tomorrow. Still, through black glass doors their words enter my room, bidirectional digital media digging burrows around the globe and tunnelling into our veins. Laughter, whispers, distant screams echo through the runs of this schizophrenic warren with no exits, hammering brains like timpani fingers, trapping us like spiders under upturned glasses. And the huntsman thrashes on. And the huntsman thrashes on.