Daniel Kitson

There’s the sound of somewhere else and the permanence of a plant pot and the ubiquity of a phrase and the heartbreaking brevity of a very long time. There’s figs and worms and an old dog rejecting a blanket. There’s a woman, on a train, wearing a badge. There’s the first beep of a smoke alarm and there’s a daffodil in December and there’s the condition of fruit. There’s a hand in bed and there’s stuff on the stairs and there’s a mark on my jumper and there’s a massive tree in storage on a farm in Kent. There’s nothing to say and there’s the thought of rotting and there’s the name of a feeling and there’s the smell of tobacco. There’s the twelfth floor of a hotel and the far end of a platform at Tamworth train station. There’s a duty to act and there’s a resistance to growth and there’s a new place up the road and there’s a completely redundant volume control. There’s a toilet in Hong Kong and a coffee shop in Melbourne and the passage of light through a building and deliberately making things much more difficult than they actually need to be. There’s music, more or less throughout, at least two funny voices and upwards of three jokes.