Bulging walls, stairs spiralling into themselves, leading nowhere. Blinding throbs. Nothing exists but what goes on in the body. Nodes, lines of radiation, of wandering. Intensifyings. Transient relief. What I am thickens into what hurts: the point where. Not further. Not beyond. Not over there: here. And here. I show it to the no-one there. Roads have long been leading into the impossible’s dark. All the senses turn inward, draw thick charts, register. No safety, no hinterland is left. With eyes closed I trace the wires that transmit messages of pain. You’ll be long tortured before you die; you’ll beg for a quicker death. On the top where sounds break off a cat’s mottled nape and back appears, then passes out of sight.