I sit on the mattress edgewhere sleep loosens its hold.Cold floor.Cold air.My knees protest as I rise —a brief white flare.My back answers later.We bargain.Morning rehearses itself:Irn-Bru, sink, street, screen —the routine of return.I think about dirt —how it keeps its record in layers:bone shadow, seed trace,char, rust, shard,one century pressed into the next,nothing discarded,nothing…