Pillow Case

I once had a Morrissey pillow case. It had 'last night I dreamt that
somebody loved me' printed across it. I could never bring myself to
sleep on it for fear of it fading. Age eight I had a pillow case with
rainbows and clouds whirling across it. It always made me want to stay
in bed all day and that was when I was eight; years before day time TV
and masturbation.

I once tried to make my own; quilting together scout badges for knot
tying, Portuguese flags brought home by holidaying friends, torn scraps
of jean, shreds of material found strewn around my sister's room, even
the winking face of Postman Pat grafted from a fading T-shirt. This
pillow case I loved above the others because I'd made it myself. I
loved to drag my cheek across the different materials, settling on the
single rectangle of silk that always stayed cool.

If I had a pillow case now it might have words all over it. A novel
scrawled in spidery handwriting. It would smell musty but in that good,
addictive way. I don't sleep with pillows anymore. If I try to use one
it just ends half way across the room and my head, as if returning to a
well-missed lover, snuggles up to the mattress. Often my neck muscles
feel as though I've been too close to the front of the cinema; watching
what I do not know because I no longer dream.