Auckland is a sweet, suburban place built on dead volcanic fields. Up on the surface, you are surrounded by bungalows made of wood and by people with a certain kind of face (white, narrow, hearty) but sometimes you sense the lava stirring far below. And from this rocky perch, in the middle of an Irish night, I send my dream texts into sleeping screens. Eighteen thousand kilometres between us. I like the delay. It feels peaceful. –
