Blue skies outside my window, my dealer is 45 minutes late. From the moment I call him I'm watching the clock, counting down as the sticky numbers hold on to every second. Paralysed, my work sits in folders, in a waiting pile. Soon my mind will be smooth enough to take a thought. Now it's staccato-thinking only. Cleaning needles and getting fresh water is hard enough. It builds until the tourniquet tightens and peaks, then the pull back and blossom of blood takes care of everything. Everything.