I am drifting.

Lost.

Like an ocean, the void lulls me in its vastness.

My self—that tiny, inconsequential thing—threatens to unravel under the immense pressure of non-existence.

But I hold onto it. Fold into myself, ignore the pull of nothingness and drown in memories, feelings, sensations.

Time has no meaning. The only sign of linearity is my eroding, the outer layers of my being waning even as I grow to compensate; an endless cycle of ebb and flow.

And in the end, change.

And I start over again.