In book seven of his encyclopedia, Bartholomaeus called the trigger of parietal headache “choleric fumes”. I frequently walk into that caustic mist like a capricious puppy. Binocular vision decays, while the pupils slowly warp and flimsy ornaments creep under the eyelids. Uncertain if the sulky stimulus comes from the in or the outside, I circulate among aromatic hues, passive-aggressive ceiling lights and undulating figures. The Franciscan scholar suggested pouring lukewarm water over the head, hands and feet to let the fumes evaporate. Before I welcome the fuzzy phantoms through the dilated door.
