When the bedroom lights go out, Sibble begins getting his brushes ready. Each is a tiny thing – eyelashes and sealing wax – gathered from cheeks and writing desks in the small hours. By the time your eyes are closed, he has strapped on his tiny paint pots and scampered onto the light fixture. From there it is tiny, precise brush-strokes of glittering phosphor spreading swathes of stars across the ceiling. Here and there he adds small flourishes – galaxies and nebulae that would seem to spin and swirl were your eyes open to see them. By the time the rays of dawn seep into the room the glitter has all but faded, and Sibble has replenished his supplies and retired to his snuggery.