Pain rests within me like toxic algal bloom in the wine-dark sea. It courses through my body fleshing out the contours of a poetic impulse akin to renaturation, it screams in color—it screams in Homer’s presumed absence of blue. On some nights, it resurfaces the mind-body problem and reshapes it into a pseudo-debate before my eyes, into something that in its strive to go beyond experience, beyond the place where reason and intellect reside, erases itself in chaotic movement. In the midst of a flare-up, the mind-body dualism mutates into an illusion—illness both becomes and expunges the hyphen. And henceforth, it would seem that the ontological problem of hurting and aching and throbbing gains a curious and rather tragic destiny as well: that of being able to exist and be established solely at the cost of illusions, at the cost of reason’s chimeras. That of being unable to possess clarity except by analyzing its own decomposition, by disintegrating and dissipating its own chimeras, and thus obliterating all fantasies. Vertical like a pendulum’s rod, I let myself be worked on by death.[1] Pain possesses and abandons my body at will. Before my eyes, philosophical creation becomes neuropathically synonymous with the confusion of the patient.