Pitter, patter, putter. Tut, tut...tut. After nearly running a marathon, my heart slowly unwinds to breakdown as the fear drips over me like honey, sticking to my every nerve. Smooth, gooey, and cool. Like an insect embedded in amber, my body lays motionless. I'm Kurt Vonnegut's Tralfamadorian. Catatonic. Frozen in time. North, West, South, East. Each direction leads to a different path, an unknown path that would require unsolicited sacrifices. Winding in circles, my soul resounds the vibrations of a Tibetan gong. Vertigo? Maybe. In limbo, the lines between the physiological and psychological blur.
