The air feels fake. Fictional even, when that tightness in my chest occurs. Slick smokey and black fingers lurk From the corners of any minuscule space I happen to be in And creep, and lurch, and crawl towards me. They drown out the light and **** up the oxygen. Coal-colored tendrils, Petrifying sea anemones, Anatomical autonomous anomalies... Awful. I sit paralyzed. My control comes in the form of doorways. Or windows. Or room to move my arms. But these creatures deny me the satisfaction of control, of space, of air. Synthetic winds fill my body, rapidly, as if I can't get enough. Shutting my eyes does not help. It only enhances the sensation of them gripping my arms, Strapping me down and maneuvering their way down my throat. Churning my stomach and stopping the expansion of my lungs. Each bronchial synapse screams. Every AVM feels like it might burst and fill my lungs with thick blood. Choking. The fingers are stuck and tickling my esophagus and they burn, Like ash from a funnel tunneling through me scorching my organs. Behind buzzing hummingbird eyelids Are kaleidoscopic misfitting jigsaw pieces entering, appearing, disappearing, e x i t i n g. It won't end It won't end Itwon'tend The world is ending all around and the arms and fingers won't (gogogo go GO) back to the corners whence they came Until...