I allow my physical form to drift along the jet stream of coercion. For a while, I let my spiritual form drift too, momentary respite from the melancholia of wisdom, the agony of knowledge devoid of control. But control will come.

Like the diem, I must only seize it.

From the stream, I break free with oars of will. Scratching at my arms, my torso, my legs, there’s an aggression in its hold now, a spite which only drives me deeper.

Who told us we are limited by pain? I close my mind to it, disengage.

Pain is useful only to those who are captives held by flesh and bone.

Implosion. Surface breached. Water soaks my lungs, brine preservation.

Who told us we are limited by oxygen? Liquid inhalation through reverse evolution.

Breath filters thro...

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