I couldn’t recall any of the stories. All I knew were echoing voices, recollections about gypsies drifting between shifting realms of magical spheres in the insomnia of memory. They enchant the cities they invade and leave behind an illuminated rhapsody of time. “Do gypsies sleep at night?” I asked. “Why are you asking?” Grandpa said.
In the year of heaven’s lunar ecstasy, when all the things that mattered lined up at the moment of orgasmic delight, I found myself stranded on the road to utopia, wondering why my mother’s continent was exempted from the luminous joy of the world. The moon, in her patient empathy with my plight, laid before
I stood naked in the unfamiliar bathroom, aware of my penis standing out from my body like something foreign. Barely three metres square, it had a neatness absent in the room I had passed through, where my clothes now lay on her bed—this girl, Sarah, I only just met. Generic white tiles on the wall,