Upstairs on the bus home, I cried behind my sunglasses as I kept the sorry finger pressed tight against my thumb. Boiling the kettle, sterilizing a needle, pouring salt into a bowl, I was putting off the moment, anticipating a sudden gut clenching yelp each time I tried to find the right place. I stood in the final momentary clarity of a shaft of afternoon sunlight, that intense golden moment just before a tall chimney stack blocks out the direct light here, and with a deft flick of the fine sharp I had it clean out of me. A thickly dark sphere of blood rose after it.
On the sofa later, I got lost reading the same line over and over again and entered a magical world full of echoing incantations and poetic repetitions and ramblings. I slept for a hundred minutes to be awoken by the sudden thump of my book falling to the floor.