I’m a statue.My now hoodless grey hoodie is stained with crackling sprigs of stale moss,the stinking green residue of a field now a million miles away and there’s even a foamy white dribble hiding the brand where a bird dangled it’s legs right above me,obviously thinking that I was a statue.I stare at the lifeless hand that droops from the end of my stick arm,remembering when it used to dance around excitedly with the rest of my fingers when I was telling a particularly interesting story or doing a hand jive,before my thumb was cursed to an eternity of pointing upwards like a regimental soldier standing to attention.My other fingers are no use either,the space between my pinkie and my forefinger is now the home to a few restless mites that keep burrowing their heads into the crevices of my skin as though my hand is a soft play place.My palm flares and throbs and sweats like hell.