I like it when I get to the top of the road and I look out and see the mist down over the hills. It’s like a wrapped parcel and you know there’s something good inside.

They’re not sharp hills, or pointy. They’re bums and boobs, with cracks and splits. They’re fat and folding. I like it when the wrapping comes off.

When the mist comes down to cover the hills I don’t think grey. I think of parcels and coloured wrapping, and clothes and tits and bums

Later that day I went outside and walked up the street, and when I got to the top of the road I wouldn’t look out at the hills. The hills could’ve been clear, or the mist could’ve been down or it could’ve been just lifting off. I turned and went back home. I remember wondering if I would ever look there again.