I walk home with my head awash with images, and the air tastes sweet, like peaches. Up the stairs and I’m home, and he’s still on the lounge, watching that late night news discussion programme he likes, and he’s about to speak but I straddle him and stick my tongue down his throat and stop him. And then he moves to get the remote and put a CD on, but I don’t let him, and a politician drones on and on about healthcare reform or something as I grind up against him, and then his shirt is unbuttoned and his pants are down and I’m doing what I love to do. And later in bed he’s lying there asleep with his arm around me, his hand cupping my breast, until my leg starts to cramp and I undress myself of him and get up and go back to the lounge room. I light up and look at that big blank canvas in the corner because I can’t sleep. Sometimes insomnia just means more time to paint.