Something has changed: the speaker no longer wants to sniff lacquer, and instead tastes spring. The world grows kind, trees blossom, grass sprouts on the pavements — and then the grass is wheat, there are crowds, a computer game, a film, a window — and then no one, and a fierce winter. The hallucination assembles and collapses in five quatrains, and the first line comes back as the last with a comic groan: “A-a-a, I won’t sniff lacquer any more.” A cautionary tale that refuses to preach. The renewal is comic but genuine. Spring competes with addiction, and for a moment the senses choose blossom, grass and kindness over chemical escape. That unstable optimism matters: recovery appears not as a sermon but as the sudden discovery that the ordinary world can still be intoxicating.