Everything seems slower, thicker.
It's as if the air has some sort of. . . resistance.
I move across rooms, cautious. My whole body in some sort of protective bubble and if it were to burst, my body would explode. Flesh turning in on itself. Bones shattering.
I find myself in the kitchen looking down onto the hedge full of birds. I slowly become aware of the empty plate I'm holding in my hands and I start thinking to myself, "why isn't this breaking against the wall, bursting into a million needle sharp pieces".
I place it down gently onto the work surface in case it decides to do exactly that.
I can feel a howl of anguish building up inside me. I swallow down hard and put my hands to my mouth.
It doesn't help.
Image title Abyss