I’m clenching a rough rope tightly between my left thumb and forefinger as I descend down the throat of a bottomless pit. I am not encumbered by the panicky implications of safety equipment. My right arm is gesturing wildly into empty space, acting as the ground-wire for an overstimulated mind.

I tilt my head back and let my eyes reassuringly trace the taut lifeline up to the tiny disc of blue sky, the size of a full moon, capping the vertical chamber. The sight sparks an anonymous memory, which flutters to dutifully provoke a faint aftertaste of life in the center of my chest. Never willful to leave anything unanswered, a familiar dream-like reality superimposes itself on my surroundings. It’s as if I’m standing in a subway tunnel, directly facing an oncoming car, while being pulled backwards strongly by something’s insistence that it’s the proper place for me to be. I twist my head to look over my right shoulder, but everything is dark and shapeless. The illusion melts. I find myself still inching downward, carnally addicted to the growing clarity of my thoughts; paternally insulating them from everything that only knows how to dampen and mute.

I pause to contemplate how I’m as equally dependent on the rope staying anchored from above as I am on my desire to not let go of it. While the only biofeedback I’ve received so far has promised that further down is better, I ask myself if I’m any more objective by now than an alcoholic whose bitter swill has grown sweeter with inebriation. I can’t help but smirk as I tell myself the outcome of a bitter poison is the same as a sweet one — that the only difference is the courtesy of a warning.

An electric pain echoes between my left middle finger and elbow. The bloodless knuckles of my left hand wish to inform me that they’ve noticed they’re the only members of our mutual congregation who are doing any struggling. My mouth opens in instinctive response to the mental image of my left hand turning the wheel of a giant faucet, which proffers a drop but promises a torrent.