A knotted-together village wrapped like silk scarves around a hill, burying itself into it, beavers in the dark, legs kicking. Little worm holes wriggle from the sun. Smoke rises from beneath the village wall; the gypsy camp, planted in the rubble. Fridge doors, wooden cupboards, the kind of stuff that disappears when you chuck it over a ledge.

Olive trees spread out over the fields like ball bearings. They look like one of those pins-and-needle masks that you get at quirky gift stores, the ones you press your face into and the imprint sticks out the other side, the tiny rods soft and cool against your face like curtain tassels. Like curtain tassels, that you can tip upside down and make a doll out of, a blank mannequin face with the swishy hair of a mermaid. Curtain-tassel hair like submerging my head in the bath and feeling the curls collapse between my fingers, rocking and swaying to some anonymous wave. Olive trees spread out over the fields like ball bearings.