Pottering from room to room, I forget where I am. What day is it? What year? Memories from a time before flicker behind my eyes, and my mouth tastes like dust. I’m caught between two worlds; a ghost in the machine unable to find meaning other than in the outlines of what’s already been. Stumbling outside, I light a smoke, take two drags then venture back because of the cold. There’s everything to do, and yet I can’t muster the clarity of mind to focus on even the simplest of tasks. My bones ache. It feels like I’m fading away like a cancer patient in some ward that’s witnessed a thousand deaths and yet never the joy of life. Moving to the living room, I observe the boxes stacked to the ceiling housing my possessions. It’s as if I’ve never laid eyes on them. They puzzle me. I am puzzled. I’ve been here before, yet I’m a stranger on foreign shores. Reaching out, I caress the shapes that form in the mist escaping my nostrils. In one long, labored breath, I recognise them as real, only for them to become thinner and thinner, like the outlines of an image placed beneath several sheets of tracing paper.