Wake up. Wasps buzz and tumble over each other deep in your frontal lobe; between the eyes, under the skin. Light stings, sound sickens. Bury your head. Thump. Thump. Thump. Again. Thump. Thump. Thump. The beat of blood pulsing though your head echoes and warps, spills out of synch until the moment you feel the beat and the moment you hear the sound it makes are far enough apart that the world seems tipped sideways. Whistles join the beat; shrill, joyful. Cars honk and feet slap against the tarmac. Your eyes crack, the wasps, unsettled, beat their wings. A darkened room, seen sideways through black flashes of lightening, an empty glass of water sitting on the bed side table. A crack of light knifes through the tight drawn curtains and flashes off a mirror. On the street outside a black man, old with dreads bigger than him beats a large white drum. He stands in the middle of the road. He is the announcer. The harbinger. Cars slow. Passers-by slow. Watch him dance. Thump. Thump. An electric pulse shoots through your body, a thousand smaller pulses contract the muscles in your neck. Your head raises, tilts up. The wasps fall over each other, they drone, clamour. Your skin tingles in the air, oxidizing and decaying around you. In the small circular mirror above the sink you don’t see death, only a slightly pale face, furrowed brow, eyes ringed with black. The water splashes in the porcelain basin, fills the dirty glass. Water droplets jump and freeze your skin. The drumming of the dancing man fades and following behind him, drawn along by the beat is a long black car and a crowd dressed for mourning. They sing. Celebrate. Dance. Cry. The wasps buzz again, their wings thrum and vibrate. Close your eyes. Grow quiet, still. The procession moves forward in the sunlight. You sleep.