I fell into my bag. The bag was vast - a la Mary Poppins. It was cavernous and dark and lighted only by the sheen of conscience. I kept falling before the bottom reared up and caught me in its canvas bosom. I spent an age in its depths trying not to think of the one thing that would raise me up again. I had a penchant for self-deception you see. Or I’d like to hear the echo of a voice trying to unhear itself. I had nowhere to go and it was the purest of feelings. For a time. I even danced, albeit with phantoms who’s ethereal sweat still marks my palm. Sometimes the echoes...