I would like to write down what happened in my grandmother's house the summer I was eight or nine, but I am not sure if it really did happen. I need to bear witness to an uncertain event. I feel it roaring inside me--this thing that may not have taken place. I don't even know what name to put on it. I think you might call it a crime of the flesh, but the flesh is long fallen away and I am not sure what hurt may linger in the bones.

Gatwick airport is not the best place to be gripped by a fear of flying. But it seems that this is happening to me now; because you are so high up, in those things, and there is such a long way to fall. Then again, I have been falling for months. I have been falling into my own life for months. And I am about to hit it now.