Lismore, Australia. I woke up with the sun in my eyes, in a woman’s shelter, in the sunroom of a house that looked like any other house on a quiet street in a country town. I missed my little rented shack, and my cat, and the epic battle to make love keep its promise. This was nothing and nowhere: a blank house on a blank street, keeping itself a secret. I found the other women in the kitchen; they came in as I waited for my toast to pop out of the toaster. There was a young Aboriginal woman. And an older woman, blonde and jaded: too old for this shit, I thought. Like the world’s most depressing youth hostel, we entertained each other with our stories: how we ended up there. And we swore we wouldn’t go back. Partway through my toast, I felt sick, and excused myself to lie on my bed of relentless sunbeams. This became the morning routine: toast, affirmations, nausea. Until one day I woke up and they were gone. And then I was gone.