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JAMA. 2004;291:1678.

	Since this article does not have an abstract, we have provided the first 94 words of the full text and any section headings.

My eyes turned feral, made
visitors feel hunted. When I
talked, interlocutors thought
of machine-gun turrets, wolf-children,
and town drunks. I sold grand schemes
to myself, Mad Morphine Dauphin.

I became characters in
stories my mind told my mind. I
softly ceased to exist. The stench
of the hospital, my tube-invaded body.
Cubist quarrels with nurses—none
of this had to do with old
what's-my-name. Morphine
slew ego. I was a parsonage
without a parson, a jukebox mausoleum.
Later I reintroduced myself to
myself. Long time, no see. There
are still hard feelings between us.

Hans Ostrom
Lakewood, Wash

Poetry and Medicine Section Editor: Charlene Breedlove, Associate Editor.

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