I rose from bed, and opened the door.
There she was. Somehow I’d expected
Imogen to be stumbling like a zombie,
her hands outstretched into empty space.
Instead she stood by the staircase,
ghost-like, perfectly still. I dared not
touch her, or startle her. Imogen stirred,
and started to walk. I followed. She was
returning to her room. The door was ajar.
She glided in. Suddenly Imogen groaned,
and garbled some inexplicable words. I
made my exit. I couldn’t help reflecting
that Imogen was a profoundly troubled