Lucid

This is cinema, I suddenly think, neck snapping up. I can almost see myself shrinking in a frame, sitting in the window of a cafe in Mexico City, till I realise it's not a film but a dream.

INSIDE

Cold air creeps in through a poorly insulated window. It moves slowly, infecting things with cold as it rolls along. No summer breeze with its radiative warmth—the cold is a bad song to which no one can remember the words, that song that plays over and over in your mind, affecting your thoughts and dulling your actions.