A few years ago, shortly before being diagnosed with Schizophrenia, I experienced what could be described as an experience of a lifetime.

I was in hospital, recovering from an injured shoulder, I was forced by some unseen force to re-enact episode 4 of the Star Wars saga.  I had previously imagined a scenario involving the natives of the moon of Pandora (Avatars).  The natives won that particular battle, but the opposition retaliated by building a moon sized battle station  called the Death Star.

My imagination was thrown into overdrive, and I found myself hurtling down the Death Star trench armed to the teeth with photon torpedoes.  Han Solo saved my life with his Millennium Falcon, which left me the option to fire two well aimed torpedoes down the exhaust vent.

That was quite a day, I can tell you that.