1.1.18 Bathroom window
It is possible to spend the whole day letting your eye move from one spot of light to another. I know this because I tried it today, because you have to do something on the first day of the year, don't you, and this seemed as good a thing as any.
You start by slowly twisting a teaspoon under the stutter of the cold tap and before you know it, that's you lost in a dot-to-dot that will last all day. A star caught in an upturned glass will lead you to another in the drying rack. Soft smears of it wait in leather, in wood, in more surfaces than you knew you had. A look down at your hands, and your fingernails will turn to mirror balls and you'll have to stop yourself from playing the air like a pianist. All day, you'll do this, finding lines of light along edges, squinting your eyes to make them flare, making people around you think you're cross or have a headache, and you'll try and smooth yourself into attention and fail. You will watch a girl run a pedestrian crossing in white trainers, her heels making sparks on the pavement. You will look up and a hundred more will shift in the beach hedge. You will wonder how on earth there can be so much light in everything and, later, when you sit in a dark car in the rain, you will nearly lose your mind at the sudden colour. No longer white but red and green and blue. Roman candles that bleed into the tarmac. Light in salt and light in spray.
The best of it all though, and I promise it is the best, is that when you go to close your eyes that night, you'll find every moment of light caught still behind your eyelids. They'll flicker back into being, soft and enduring. A private night sky.
You will fall asleep under stars.