What scope do we have, what leeway do we have? Do you ever wonder about that, do you ever wonder about that? Can we ever truly rest? Breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out. Let your body sink into, let your body sink into. Let it plummet like a stone. Let it plummet like a stone thrown into a deep dark pond. Sinking, sinking, sinking. Plummeting, plummeting, plummeting. Inky blackness all around. Sinking deeper all the time. Sinking into that inky darkness. Deeper and deeper. How far can you go, how far can you go? Did you ever wonder that, did you ever wonder that? Did you ever? Did you ever? Let your body sink, let your body sink. Could you stop it even if you wanted? I’m so tired of thinking. I thought too much. I overdid it – I burnt the bottom out of the pan. I thought too much and that’s why I became the leaden homunculus, it occurs to me. That’s why. That’s why I became a man of lead. That’s why I became so leaden. I have legs like two lead pipes crumpled up underneath me; they’re buckled this way and that. They’re folded up underneath me. My body is like a vast squat black cauldron – it is like an immense black pot. Two weak and feeble arms stretch out pathetically on either side. They are like short lengths of ribbon. They’re like two fronds of seaweed, trailing along behind me. Plummeting into the depths, plummeting into the depths. Plummeting into. It is strangely peaceful. ‘But what’s your HEAD like?’ you ask. You’re dying to know. You’re eaten up with curiosity. ‘What’s it like? What’s it like? What’s it like?’ you want to know. You prod at me again: ‘Your legs are like two buckled lengths of lead piping, your body is like a vast black cauldron, your arms are like two fronds of seaweed trailing along behind you, but what’s your head like?’ I don’t know what my head is like, though. I can’t tell you that…