In my dream, language reaches the point of no return. This miasma of immemorial memes loses my attention. Adverbs fold in on themselves, ‘ands’ unjoin what they brought together. Full-stops look ludicrous in their millions, scattered like atoms, or zillion planets telescopes cannot perceive. There are colourful adjectives for this feeling of losing language, adjectives not repeated in polite company, but adjectives too are dissolving as loss sets in, or chaos, or a bad coffee. Expletives self-delete. There is only us, attempting forgiveness, reaching out, somewhere where nouns are non-sense and verbs are in the past. April is history, asleep.