I’m falling fast. I look down. I gasp as I recognize Dali’s ‘Christ of St John of the Cross’ from rainy Sunday mornings in Kelvingrove Art Galleries. I’m looking down at dark hair, hands nailed to the cross, body slumped forward almost wrenching arms from their sockets as he rises above the world. He looks up at me. It’s not Christ’s eyes that bore into mine, it’s Connor’s.