This story has no centre. Imagine the tall grass in a meadow. the path visible between the blades where a body has passed through. Imagine the house in London where the rooms hold the scent of perfume worn by someone who has just left. Imagine the distant voices coming from another room. They are always in another room, there is always another room.

This story has no centre, and without a centre the margins will not hold. Imagine a weight tied to a string and swung in a circle above your head, velocity and tension maintaining the orbit. Imagine the string cut, and the weight flying off into a darkness. Remember that half of orbit is free falling inwards, and half is running away. Imagine running away.

This story has no centre. I’m writing it with lost words, I’m including holes in the story and writing around them. Imagine a story like lace made by blind nuns, busywork to be sure but see how fine the fabric, see how light will pass through it.

This story has no centre, and when I try to tell it the words fall from my mouth like frogs in a dream or a curse, crawling up and out of my throat with winter white bellies and cold cold skin. Imagine me telling it anyway and calling it witnessing, like the jehovah’s witnesses do: I am a witness and I’m testifying, I’m preaching a gospel of the blank page, chapter missing word, verse void.

At the centre of the story is my mother, waiting like a princess in a fairytale behind high briar hedges. In the clearing of the story she turns to me with a smile and says what took you so long.