Half of the time I’m comfortably breathing in the fresh air. Apart from an occasional dizziness and a couple of stumbles, I’m perfectly OK. The other half of the time, I simply strive to coil my arms and legs and make them fit into a box. This is the best place to fight against myself. The box is made in blurred glass, so everything outside is distorted and doesn’t really reach me – I feed on a crooked reality. It’s really hard to move into the box. The simple breathing is extremely wearying, let alone with all the arms wrapping around the face. The skin sticks to the glass. And suddenly I feel old and weary. But now I’ve grown weary and have decided to unbox myself. Time to break that iron lung. I’ve bought a hammer.