There is not a day I can mark as the day we gave birth to each other - witches and queers, avatars and heretics - a performative birthing from parts unknown, an ectopod made of paper, string and texts and the dry electricity of the street. Rain, a fractured score, feet on floorboards, climbing stairs. Or maybe a sweaty day in 1990 before we were born. A spelling of ambience, affect and time.