Mind over matter, or does it matter when the world's a stage

I went spelunking recently. Not by choice, mind you. Not sure bout y'all but one of the most frequent celluloid shorts to jump my blood-brain barrier involves potholing, or caving.

The long-running reverie usually ends with head torch alkaline AAAs dying out in tight darkness, invisible wet walls moving closer round me, a black widow wending its way across my arm and me reaching for the No 2 pencil I forgot to pocket for the final.

But enough about these nearly nightly nocturnal narratives that never, ever go away (I tried piping in Kenny G covers of Metallica during alpha states ... doesn't work).