I stopped being able to see last week. Light got in my eyes, it made pictures, they were there, hanging on the walls of my brain, projected on my homuncular gogglebox, but I couldn’t see them. Like when you go to a gallery and you know the paintings are all around you, but there are other things to do, like talk about shopping or rain, or think about last week or what Suzy was or wasn’t saying to you, so you don’t really see them. You stay there so late that it’s closing time, and you don’t realise until the cleaners come and you smell the soap on the floorboards, and then you know that it’s time to leave, and, for a few seconds or minutes, you’re in the moment, because the citrus invasion from the janitor’s spray has jerked you into presence, but by this time the lights have been dimmed and, even though you’re lucid, and are trying to look, they are just not what they are meant to be, murky riddles on an artist’s wall.