Soporific, transient images float; br the shooting pain keeps me vivid br as Delauney, except my palette is br pain not paint. The limp head hangs br like an adolescent on a saturday. br My shoulder hurts. br br I am lost in the corridors of my mind; br there are no signs left; br the handles have turned to dust. br My mental vending machine is empty now br except for the pain bar and the packet of agony. br My shoulder hurts. br br Outside the window a man is mowing gravel; br Shall I look? Can I move? br I smash the glass and blood appears. br But there is no blood! br Then why is my vision smeared? br My shoulder has fallen off.