Walking, along the same path if necessary, walking with eyes down and intent, walking without sympathy, walking in the scent of another creature with the head held arrogantly back, stalking feverishly, stopping to listen, stopping as if there was another following you as you followed someone who wasn’t there, walking, sometimes in slippers but mostly going back to the boots you wore the first day you came into the hospital. Then the walking stops. The motor has sensed the uselessness. The drugs have made the instinct paper-thin.

Collapsed into a chair, the mind is frightened and tired. The sense of illusion makes the men and the women sorry. Though some, more highly charged than others, keep on. And others will never start out physically at all.

Instead of their bodies, they’ve sent their minds out to roam. Going, if necessary, along the same path.

At night time all collect tired by their beds. For the newcomers this is always the moment of dread. For the old-timers from Mayo, who have been walking like Job through the Land of Nod, this is the moment of heart’s desire. They pull back the sheets with perfect care. Then begins the little industry of going to bed. Now they prepare for the moment when sleep takes them off during the night.

Sleep is the perfect wanderer – he carries nothing at all. All he needs is a mind to journey in and to rest in. They lie preparing for him.

And when they close their eyes they cross this familiar pasture. They feel purged as Jack did the first time he thought he would go into the asylum. They are asleep within seconds. And next morning they know they can leave once more without the burden of ties.

Each night they return to a different bed. Or sometimes to the same bed after a day of intense walking. And now as they lie down, their minds, too, return to rest. They tell the body where they have been. They exhaust themselves with stories of the world. And they forget the moment they knew it was only an illusion, and put it by. Then, when all the patients are asleep, the nurse who last year had his own trouble turns into a nomad. He starts his patrol on the outer reaches of consciousness. Under the cloak of responsibility, he starts his walk. And the sleepers have made room for his step in their dreams. The hospital becomes a great walking space for those who are active and those who are still.

In their boots the Mayo men walk to the end of the corridor, turn and tramp back; neighbouring men, fags burning next the little finger, butterflies in their stomachs, dogs at their heels and animals looking over hedges at them. When you’ve found someone to walk with you’re happy, even when that someone is yourself.