I grew up with chandeliers by my side, marble everywhere. Cold, glistening. Fine, polished wood, curves and knobs exquisite playgrounds for my fingertips, and the mysterious bottoms of tabletops, old, dodgy and grey from dust. What have I missed outside, as I lay in this wonderland, my back to the cold floor, counting stars on the pure-white heavens, and crystals on the ceiling? What have I overheard, singing in the echoes with imaginary friends? Or have I explored more than I imagined, breathing fog on the glass, not seeing outside the medium? Soft cushions, pale pink and blue, the most colourful cloths wrapped around me like a shield, as I painted the sky with my fingers at sunset; the blues, purples, magentas, the darks and the lights at the tip of my lungs. And my eyes are like yours, mother, closed.

But you have thrown yourself to the world, and I have kept hidden, inside.