Circle over circle over circle over circle. Ring above ring above ring above ring. Layers upon layers. It strikes you that perhaps this is the very nature of the maze, perhaps this is the centre. The crows in their impossible flight pattern give such a clear and predictable image, like the turning of the hands on a clock, yet each of them is different and chaotic. This is the maze in an image. Or perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps this is just the nature of obsession. Perhaps you are becoming fixated. And perhaps that is the maze.

The crows spiral above a rickety house of damp wood and rusted nails. There is a spark of electricity in the air.