I met a man in a bar. A gold bar, an ingot in which we were encased. Being a soft malleable metal we made small incremental movements and eked out space for further more elaborate movements, gradually making ourselves at home. Any old road, he told me in, the small cave we had formed, about the time he tripped up a child in Autumn mist. It - he reported – stared back at him, incredulous, in uniform, in anxieties. Brown leaves – he told me drooling – fell about them in the moments stasis, in the formaldehyde freeze. “Happy times” he said, pressing against the newly carved space.