There is a wall and, across the dark room, another wall.

I walk between them. Getting there – to the other wall – is the goal.  What is in the middle is mere mathematics: five strides sees me across the old stone floor, and I practice so that my toe touches the far wall exactly on the fifth . . . the edges of the room are safer; I have no idea why . . .

Words come back. ‘It is as though I were dead.’  That came from a book, I think; one I had read recently. But, when I try to focus on the source, it seems to pull away, as though there were another reality that teased with its existence, but would not be grasped.

How long, now?  How long have I been locked in here? One hour, maybe two? One pace, two paces…