MODERN BUT ANCIENT, THIS NIGHT Everything at night’s half-seen, massed leaves dark heaps, or intricate poplar baskets, seen because back-lit by yellow street illumination my head swung unlocked, a back door staring wide open into blackness, hinged, square-edged but incapable of being shut, so no protection from whatever darkness was. It wasn’t comfy, a planet-rotating-on-its-axis childhood sort of night, more of a vector angle, dimensionless, a velocity without reference points to tell me where the hell I was? What blackness? Somewhere? Where? Which universe? Psychiatrists pretended that they knew (fed up: next patient? Same misery again) Prescribing magic end-of-the-rainbow pills gives training years a point: “These stop hallucinations” (also stop brain-parts making sense of anything at all, disorganise grammar superglue the locks inside ill heads) Repeat “Mentally ill patients need to take their medication” like that’s true for everybody all the time? Simplifying moonlit half-seen massed heaps of dark inaccuracies into “facts” is meaningless as Vapes when we want cigarettes! “In fact” neurology staff crossed out the listed anti-psychotics she-must-be-given when I lay in Intensive Care unconscious, stopping the convulsions that were killing me, that saved my life. Pretending brings some of us, like me, through dark dreadful black-as-sootness to a noise of blackbirds singing wildly, greeting the emerging sun in a December dawn, almost 3 years free of anti-psychotics. Ordinariness is becoming believable at last to me, and other people are real!