I’m drifting... without a sense of direction; ‘up,’ ‘down,’ ‘left,’ and ‘right' have no meaning in the absence of physical form. My crash site, at the moment, continues to occupy real space, but only as an island of vague demarcation, its twilit boundaries grown smaller, less significant—juxtaposed to this vast, immeasurable Void—like a spotlight fading toward blackout at the end of some tragicomic stage-play. Pain is history. Fatigue remains a factor; I’m weary without foundation, my exhaustion disembodied and therefore enigmatic. Were this stark domain a battlefield, I'd surrender. But to whom?
    The Presence? He, She, It does linger, but stays out of reach... out of focus... beyond my limitations to grasp or perceive... keeping me at a distance... hopelessly unenlightened... said Presence like some transcendental code I am unable decipher.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

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