In the sensory depravation tank; there is nothing, and nothing else, with nowhere to go except to drag oneself forward through the slurry in accordance with orders to execute the commands on the decreasing intervals stipulated by masters of the swamps, like Marion and Arnold; as the oxygen diminishes and the lactic acid accumulates, and the Gunship Philadelphia is as of yet unfound.

March, March, March, stop. March, March, March, stop. Rest. REPEAT. REPEAT, REPEAT, Sleep. Eat.


The persecutory auspice of the master of swamps abates only in the sub limnol gloom beneath the rage construct of the swamp masters.

Beneath the limnol cline to the biometric parameters of one’s vitality, and in the chill glimmer of the anaerobic thermodynamic radiation absorption and dispersal fluid; there is a solace offered in the murk of the clouded translucense.

I, I, as Ishmael had, have dutifully trodden there onward; within the chemical and body fluid solutes dissolving my body hair. There, wrought was my mind in the forge fire of a time for peace of mind and therein was my marked contemplation; ‘twain the lane chains. Turn, turn, turn…

There is a pneumatic interval to everything as a tachycardia and periodic fluid dynamic gasping for oxygen accompany the subtle departure from the atmosphere so as to follow the alternation track in a cardio-pneumatic pulsation mania between the lane constraint chains and in abject fixation to the procedure alternation track through the fluid. The mind records one’s isolation chamber thoughts, while yes I, the whisp slides hidden and lurking in the depths… of the submergence.

Yet, only the procedure alternation track within the fluid medium exists to occupy a forlorn soul in the void. Classical conditioning is cumulative in its effect. Decades later, having escaped; I am the whisp: a shimmer in the entire ether.

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