3am by the L.E.D. of the bedside clock-radio-alarm. The en-suite regards itself again. Mirror is the international finish. A gecko watches me pee. He sticks to the world. His hands are small corn-plasters, intimate with everything. I try the mirror, whorl to whorl, 8ml between my index and my back-off self: two thieves in the constant glass. The gecko licks his eyes. His pallid flesh transposed, transposed, transposed.