It's as if a child with a brush and too much enthusiasm has been set free with a tin of black paint inside me.

She'd never in her whole life bunked school, smoked dope, or kissed a boy whose name she didn't know, and yet in the last few days, she'd done all these things.

I want the people I love to get up and speak about me, and even if you cry it'll be OK. I want you to say honest things.

Hold my hand. Don't let go.

. . . my bones they'll burn or bury. It'll be my death.

There's a gang of boys on bikes blocking the road ahead. They've got their hoods up, cigarettes shielded. The sky's a really strange colour and there's hardly anyone else about. I slow right down. "What shall I do?" "Reverse," Zoey says. "They're not going to move." I wind down the window. "Oi!" I yell "Move your arses!" They turn languid, shift lazily to the edge of the road and grin as I blow kisses at them. Zoey looks stunned, "What's got into you?" "Nothing- I just haven't learned reversing yet.

We make patterns, we share moments. Sometimes, I think I'm the only one to see it.