It’s all internal now.
You’re in a room.
No door,
no windows—
just four tall,
white walls.
The walls shake uncontrollably,
as if the earth were coming to an end.
What’s happening?
"Walls,
stop shaking,"
you say.
"That’s enough."
You wonder if you’ve ever had any control over the walls at all;
they don’t seem to listen to you.
Shortly,
everything will come tumbling down,
and you can’t do anything about it.
You sit and wait.

Suddenly,
through the nonexistent cracks in the walls,
waves come crashing
over your head and
down to your feet.
If a spark were to touch the water right now,
the room would instantly turn to ashes—
or so it feels.
You close your eyes,
hoping for an escape.
Yet you still know where all the water is,
simply by following the un-ignorable surge
that is felt across your entire body with each ever-growing hit of a wave.

Where are you?
Why don’t the walls break already?
And why aren’t you dead yet?

You open your eyes again
as you jolt awake in the middle of the night.
Your heart is pounding and your hands are trembling.
The beginning of the waves—
you’ve felt them.