A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

The radio next door is the finger of its operator riding a dying signal: the barking voice of a Welsh poet sharing his childhood.

A car idles on the street below. Inside it, a cassette tape slowed by years of gunk. "Ring out these bells! Ring out, ring solstice bells!"