The name of the dawn’s first bird escapes you, same as all your dreams of late. Your neighbour the moon and you haven’t really spoken, only exchanged silent, wild looks across the dinner table, while the remains of guests still incessantly gibber or discuss in detail every dish. Meanwhile, at the window, the moon spouts small white hairs on its chin. It shakes its skull and sends down dandruff, which the diners would call snow, an unexpected arrival, before they would each in turn relate a personal story of snow, one at a time around the table, until everyone has had a chance to speak. The dawn, the bird, the moon, the raging fires. Stay silent, sunrise.