My head is a corncob. A chewed one. Pieces of tiny maize skins, cover my chest. The sun is at dusk. The meadow shimmers gold outside. Tranquilized. I am inside. Inside, it’s cold. I’ll stay here, until my brain fog sets, but it won’t. My bed is damp, from sulky air. The chambers call me goodbye. The time has come for you to leave, they say. The path along is waiting. No breadcrumbs will be spread until your foot touches the road. First comes the foot, then comes the crumbs. Follow the path, my dear. Don’t fear the blast.