Eyes closed tight, you’re sorry, you’re so very fucking sorry… and in this curtain-closed afternoon you hear only the breathe and sniffle of those you call wife and daughter and son, who sit around your blackened matter as it hides under duvet and eyelid, this bedroomed hot-fug promise of never going back, answered by those pattering tones of We love you Dad, and We’ll help you get better, and from that deepest underground a guttural sob again finds echo through that rancid hole, and It’s not your fault Dad, It’s not… and the wife now stifling that tide, that grave-silent soliloquy of What have you done to us? That glass half-empty in her hand, that white pill in her open-palmed other, Sit up, Sit up and take this, the words aired downstairs to her children still swimming her head like a blind fish in a mile-deep cavern, It’s not your dad’s fault, It’s not, We can help him.