According to Floyd, it all began under a bed. Monsters overhead – Planes screeching, scratching the sky, and a mother searching for smoke on rooftops carpeted in apricot jam and October dust. In more honest moments, he winces, I’m really not sure when it all began – Your shadow, Your hidden self is as reckless as Candaules, as desperate as Zhivago, as dangerous as Othello, as intangible as trust. What do you expect, I silently respond, from a head that was born under a bed? Nothing has survived intact. Motion, proportion, consent and coercion. Not even God. Not even the prayers they engraved on the child’s skin. You have no sense of atonement, an identity with sin. Today is an act of anticipation for the hell tomorrow will bring. According to Floyd, I’ve already written my obituary, and all that is left is for a stranger to announce me dead. What do you expect, I silently respond, when I am the monster under the bed?