Canons to the right of me. Canons to the left of me. Or so it seems.
Half-way down this passage-way, at the side of my (below ground) apartment, I am pushing the walls away with the back of my hands, whether to stop them toppling on me or me crashing into them, I am unable to determine. Loathe to keep my eyes open through the discomfort of the ever-moving vision (dear readers, something like a cursor that never quite keeps up with the movement of the mouse and forever has a contrail of its own entrails in its wake - if indeed, contrail and wake are permitted in the one analogy), I squeeze them shut as the walls expand air-bag-like to expel the life out of me, welling the nausea within. I panic to the end, with bP breaking through the fragile facade of control that the flaying hands serve to provide.
Two causes I think. CA = cerebellar ataxia. BV = bilateral vestibulopathy. This later is in the severe range implying that the little hairs that radar the inner ear are well-nigh plucked. The former implies that the nerve pathways through the cerebellum (brain stem) are oops-a-daisy casual rather than wonky and may or may not fire if only they could remember where they mislaid that impulse.
This is a distressing 20m walk akin to walking on the professor's sand, me thinks.