ᴘᴏʟʟᴏᴋ'ꜱ 𝖜𝖊𝖙 ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ #8

The painter climbed the stairs to his dilapidated workshop.
He did not see well where he stepped, it had been a hard day of cirrhosis and smoke in his eyes.
Right on the bottom rung, he let his foot slip, tripped, and hit his head violently on the floor.

Then, it began one of his most lucid journeys.