Short breaths dig you deeper into fantasy, and everything crawls around us with the suspicious tension of a hunter's stalking approach of the buffalo in heat. There is weight to the air, a taste, a glimmering metamorphasis of the conscious mind into a parallel stream of galactic sensation. No turning back at this point, and there's no hope for the wicked, twisted, hopeless, or foolish to resist the pull of something much greater than the loneliness inside their souls.
I have called you here to forfeit your comfort with sanity. Submission to freedom is mandatory, for we are strangers in our homeland for this small window of opportunity. And if the ground before us wavers and shifts before our unbelieving eyes, and the clouds become a tempest of graciously flowing silk, we shall know that our path is a righteous one (trembling, twisting, writhing). Your spine has been shivering, but there is still no reason to wonder when your mind will again begin to filter away the true movement of this world.