She drank a bottle of white wine alone in her room and waited, but it did not appear. Then she went out onto unfamiliar streets to find a place where she could drink more. She found a pub she would never have been brave enough to go into sober. Tuesday night, the place almost empty. A few unfamiliar people.

She asked for a pint of beer, Fosters, drank it. But still it did not appear.

She was a long way from home. She was completely free. She had looked deep inside herself and found nothing. She was angry at her own stupidity and smallness. She was lovesick, she was defiant, she was certain she was brave, she was finally living.

She asked for a pint of beer, Fosters, perched on the barstool, the half-formed thoughts crowding in her head in all their sublime disorder and dizzying erotic depth. She was certain she was brave and that the person she wished to be and the life she wished to own were within her.

She drank the beer, but still it did not appear.

She asked for a third pint of beer. Fosters. Drank it. She rejoiced in the intensity of being alone and foreign, unknown, unconnected, drifting deeper and deeper inside herself, listening to all those whispers and blandishments. The soundless music. Saw the stark geometries, the dark wellsprings, the thunderheads boiling over the thronged green canopies. All vast and dry and cavernous. All endless crazy blooming. All for her and her alone.

Somehow she got back home. Somewhere she lost her mobile. It had not appeared. She searched her room and the kitchen for more alcohol. One more drop, so close, so close. One more drop and surely then it will appear.

“What the world's million lips are thirsting for/ Must be substantial somewhere”

Well, put down that bottle. That’s not the way to make it appear.