Due to health problems, I find myself renting a shack-like house on the border between Mexico and Texas. The sitting-room is in the United States, whilst the kitchen is in South America. I exist on a mixed diet of Twinkies and tortillas, mulling over my emotional difficulties and awaiting a selection of telephone calls which never come. Time passes without comment, and a rusty film of disinterest forms over my thoughts. Over a period of vaguely discernable weeks, I develop a species of vertigo which leaves me unable to look either up or down without extreme dizziness. My vision is locked on a horizontal plane. My situation deteriorates until I cannot look at the window without seeing the word 'window' and a foggy reflection of my own countenance. Eventually I cannot enter the United States without being overcome by emotions which manifest themselves as an overwhelming compulsion to whirl around smashing everything. When I retreat to the kitchen I find mountains of crockery coated with a mixture of coagulated food and thick dust. I huddle in the short hallway that occupies the space between the USA and Mexico, quivering with fatigue. I cannot find my tenancy agreement. I realise that I will be stuck here, in this hallway, forever.