In the distance, voices calling,
Fore! And then a golf ball falling,
It lands on my head.
   I’m dead!
No, but lying face down in the mud.
   Is there blood?
No, just mud. But the world looks strange somehow.
Like I’m looking at it through a pane of glass.
   You ask:
Isn’t glass see-through?
   (Oh, you.)
Yes, but this is misty round the edges.
   The edges?
Yes, but in the middle now as well.
   Oh, hell.
I think you should call nine nine