"I injected it. When I woke up next morning, I couldn’t even talk. I didn’t know who I was, or where I was, or even what I was. I didn’t know what a potter’s wheel was. All I saw was that I was in a studio and there was a wheel and a lump of damp mud in a bag. And broken pots. Of course I’d broken all my worthless ugly pots the night before, before," he smacked his skull with the flat of his hand, "before I broke my own head."