081413 #worm massages the arch of my foot. The webbed aluminum chair presses firmly into my back. Miranda is stroking her guitar. The tip flares. There are more smiles, sighs of relief, a new quietness into which every sound we make launches weightlessly. Mosquitos go about their stinging little lives. Miranda laughs, once, out of time. I feel a sudden rush of joy. A bit of rubbish burns, and the sparks go up, swirl around, disappear. Someone lights a cigarette