My mouth is cavernous, and my hands anchors. In my fingers I feel a sprig of thyme, not there at all but a log nonetheless: Each finger a one-tonne sausage. How far is it to the corner of the ceiling? At least two hundred decibels, I say. Like the recurring childhood nightmare and mom’s soothing hushes blaring. How huge is the world, if it’s miles to the door? If people are shrunk and the floor breathes? My centre of gravity churns. Once, at dinner, my son asked me why I looked like I was next door. How are you doing that, Daddy? Smiling, not reeling, it was mild. And I feel the pitching as the volume sways.