While you sleep, the clowns walk the tightrope of your life story. The faintest gust of wind topples them. They drift down like leaves.

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The clowns daub themselves with war paint and don dark suits with silver cuff links and tumble into the sulphurous day.

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The clowns juggle appointments, ointments, disappointments. They grin when we insert coins in their wide dead mouths.

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Catching a clown is easy. Wait until he’s on his second bottle and then set your crows on him. When you’ve got him, don’t listen to his pleading.

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If allowed near a churchyard, the clowns will dig up the dead. They can’t help it! They may bring you a leg, a head, hoping for your approval.

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Water burns the clowns. Consequently, they bathe in vodka and drink mercury.

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The clowns enjoy a special diet of strawberries, lamb, azaleas and fear. They can’t abide anything pink. Mirrors and loudspeakers confuse them.

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Tell me about yourselves, she says to the clowns. But they have nothing to say. The silence stretches and yawns. She sneezes and apologises.

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The clowns ride unicycles around the rings of Saturn. Astronomers sulk in their beds. A pie in the face, a supernova. Whatever.

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Time stutters, the lights blink. The clowns wear our faces, but we don’t wear theirs. We wear nothing. We’re naked, soft, almost zero.

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The clowns visit a bombed-out hotel. The air tastes of ash. They insist on a room with no view. The pulverised concierge wears a stiff smirk.

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It is evening. The clowns are ensconced in your cerebellum. The feasting begins soon. The wet grey tables are laden with larval images.

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Sometimes, the clowns slip out of synch with the ticking world. Slapstick tricks crack their backs. Mums and dads are sent out of the room.

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The show is over. The clowns sit in rows, dabbing at their grease painted faces. The masks dissolve and their skulls show through.

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The clowns try crawling down the wall. They want to be Dracula. But they fail. Hours later, rats have conquered the mountain of corpses.

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For the clowns, sleep is a rehearsal for death. They keep their eyes open and dream of nothing.

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Originally published as a series of tweets.