The thoughts rush at you on so many wings, a brush of wind, breeze almost overwhelming. They blur. They are not conceptual, they are not comprehensive. There are colors, fleeting and vibrant. They flash behind your eyes, a magic picture show abstract. The taste of copper seeps from the edges of your tongue inwards, it creeps down your throat and permeates your center. Nostrils may flare, the scent is unmistakable. Breach before a storm, water in the air, smoke. Then you hear it.

An audible snap. Crack of a twig underfoot, sickening thud of metal on metal, flesh on flesh.

Muscles groan and move. The mind buzzes; some deep part screams in protest but is drowned out by the persistent hum. There is movement, textures become something more. No longer a theory, they are a stark reality. Magnified a thousand times, felt with all senses at once; soft, hard, grainy, salty, metallic, sweet, bright, dull, and cold.

White spots dance in front of your gaze. They taunt you as the taste of bile creeps up from your stomach to crouch waiting in the back of your throat. The buzzing subsides, a hundred sibilant voices hissing, laughing, screaming fade. Consistency becomes clammy as reality runs a cold finger up your spine. Eyes blink, the bile pounces and the stomach lurches. Muscles ache, as the body moves away from the surface sleeping so wretchedly under it.

It sounds like a razor blade feels. Abject, habitual.