Exhibit A | My sandwiches have been tasting too good recently. I eat one for breakfast and I eat one for lunch. For supper, I toast one. When I sleep, I dream of sandwiches, of bread, of sharp knives cutting down into lettuce. On more than one occasion I’ve woken up choking, in my hand? A sandwich, one that I don’t remember making. I’ve fallen behind at work, all I can think of is garnishes. I’ve begun filing my mail in between slices of bread. I ripen my own cheese. Last week in the kitchen I cut myself as I diced peppers. Blood dripped down onto the countertop and as I stared into the crimson drops, I saw not a reflection of my own face, but a sandwich, with baby spinach and onion chutney. The sight mesmerised me, I forgot myself and stood transfixed for I don’t know how long. When I came to my shirt was damp with my own blood. Please help.

This is far beyond the scope of my training. Please seek professional help Sir.