Were there tears in my eyes, I'd be none the wiser. I looked forward: everything was dimmed and dewed–a beautiful glossed quality after the downward gush, the delicate burn. The thickness in my neck and chest stopped bothering me after a few seconds. I floated for some time.
Had I been sweating, I'd be none the wiser. I looked left and then to the right: the fabric covering my arms shifted with a darling pliancy. For what seemed like hours I noticed each thing: each blink, nostril flare, finger twitch, abdominal spasm. Now: the blue-dark from behind my eyelids versus the wax lens nature of my sight were nearly indiscernible, nothing was different. Everything was the same, only greying.
My saliva and urine mixed wonderfully within this makeshift womb, a temporary temperature difference was a fleeting distinction. I waded and sank in my medium, this reclusive palette of warmth and waste. How merciful He must be–I'm breathing my own spit and piss and all I can do is smile!
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