Buildings swirl round me.
Little twinkling lights. The sound perhaps of a duck, hiking up through the clouds.
Someone’s strangling you. You’re face down, searching for scraps. Shaking in a ditch, alone in a filthy motel.
A couple of philosophers crouched in a circle drinking coconuts through their bald, old straws.
You can fight. You can train.
You will get broken.
There’s no going back.
Your mouth opens.