The others are the others and I am me. The others have a lot to say, but they don’t understand very much. I don’t think I understand more than them, but I don’t talk as much. I prefer to talk when I’m alone.

It’s better at home. I can sit in my corner, imagining things. I imagine things, but I can’t remember them. It’s funny: the things are in my head and I’m in them at the same time. They’re very clearly there. But as soon as my mother calls me, they’re gone. I know they must have been nice, because I feel good afterwards.

My mother goes to work. She goes into a big hall and stacks metal sheets on shelves that are so high they go all the way up to the roof. She has a long ladder. I’ve always wanted to climb up a long ladder like that, but my mother won’t let me. There are lots of things she won’t let me do, because she’s always frightened for me. She locked me in the broom cupboard once, just because she was frightened. I didn’t mind. I feel at home in the dark. The darkness is warm, and bright around the edges. I lay down on the floor and imagined things until the door opened again. My mother stood in the doorway, crying. She looked even more beautiful than usual. She looked like an angel in the church window. But she was crying, and that was bad. What is it, Mama, I asked, what is it? But she didn’t say anything, just went on crying. She took me in her arms and sat down with me on the kitchen floor. We sat like that for a long time; the tiles were cool, and I could see a wisp of spider’s web trembling under the cupboard.

It was all all right in the end.

I’d like to see a toad in winter. Toads in winter are alive and not alive. I imagine everything about them stiffening: their legs, their bellies, their heads. Their eyes are cold yellow stones. I imagine the blood freezes in their toad veins, and every movement cracks and crunches. In summer it’s different; the toads pulsate and their bodies are firm and soft at the same time. I always pick them up by the leg, and they dangle, twisting and wriggling. I won’t hurt you, I say, you can carry on. The toads don’t say anything. I look at them, and then I throw them into the pool in a great big arc and there’s a splash and they’re gone.

I’m running into the wind. The fields are yellow and butterflies are dancing by the wayside. I’m running and my lungs are burning and I’m thinking about my mother. She doesn’t know yet, because I don’t know yet either. She’s my mother. I am a toad. The wind is good. I can’t feel my face. I run and run. The trees clutch at the sky and I can already smell the pool. The water is black and quiet. I lie down on my bed of reeds and wait. I wait until the sun disappears and the humming and chirping all around me stops. Night falls, but I’m not afraid. I imagine things and can’t remember them. And then I get up and take off my clothes. I lay them out neatly in a row. I wouldn’t want my mother to get cross. The moon is hanging in a tree. I walk into the water and see my white feet shimmering below the surface. I keep walking. The water is very soft and the mud feels strange between my toes. I stop and listen. Then I just let myself fall forward. I don’t feel the cold. I know that if I go deep enough I’ll find the sun at the bottom.