HERE IS THE writer in this city of writers, this glittering dry mouth in the north where we can offer you beer, coffee and sauvignon blanc but no water. She reads her lines out loud and ranges over the dry grass of her craft with a friend. They can use ink on alternate days, after 6 pm. They drink coffee that is not straightforward, eat toast.

It is the first of spring and the writer is on her way home from a workshop with her friend. On her bike these mornings, she has thought about how simple it would be to end life, how kindly to find a truck large enough to leave a doubt in the minds of those remaining. Some days she gets in the shower and turns on the water and lets it hit a place on her back. She turns off the tap and cries in the drought, wastes only the water of her tears. This is a city too dry for melodrama.