I make a daring escape from a maximum security prison camp, and, after effecting my egress from the moist tunnel, plunge headlong into the trunky darkness of the serried conifers that encircle these regions.
I scramble beneath the needled branches for some time before I realise I have a pair of garden shears embedded in my stomach, the weathered handles protruding in the direction of my escape. I attempt to wrench them from my flesh, but the pain is too great. Reluctantly I leave the shears in my belly, and stumble onwards.
With deepening anxiety, I become slowly aware that with each step, the blades of the shears move infinitesimally closer, cutting into something vital that is deep inside me. I have no choice but to continue, and as dusk cloaks the forests I finally emerge into the open plains.
I climb, with panting breaths, a ridge and stand there, horribly conscious, gazing towards a dubious future. The shears are almost closed.