Flesh eating spiders are real and I have no idea how to treat their bite. I’ve endured several First Aid courses and the only thing I remember is a man with dead eyes warning me not to help a hypothetical boy who’d fallen off his hypothetical skateboard because he was bound to hypothetically sue me.

I’m under the canopy now, a lifetime away from plastic chairs and people pretending to be interesting. The forest floor soundlessly supports my fall from grace and never asks why. It doesn’t need me to be careful. It doesn’t care if I’m happy or sad, if I’m warm or cold, if I love you or not.

The solitude is decadent and slightly cloying, like that vegan peanut-butter Ben & Jerry’s you only find in out of the way suburbs like Hazelbrook or Bundeena.

It’s impossible to go back from here. The ghosts of connection have taken up residence in the corridors of my heart leaving no room for flesh and bones.