Rushing flow of white envelopes – unopened letters from the NAB and NRMA. My keys spread across them – a doomed and glittering squid. The black plastic tops are closely aligned and the silver keys trail down as tentacles. The metal loop that holds the keys together is pressed back by the sense of inadequate propulsion forward. Despite its maximum effort, expelling water, sand and milky internal fluids, the squid cannot dash off. It is transfixed – eyes rolling in its silky, black sockets. Suspended in the foamy torrent, it grows limp and unconscious. The instant that it expires, the foam recedes and the supporting envelopes become hard. The squid gains a frightening clarity. It is borne aloft on white planks. It becomes a solid thing with no relation any longer to water – no capacity to escape into the depths. It must be conceived entirely differently, but nothing can be said of its new identity.

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