To distract myself on this chaotic ride, start paying attention to other things - fingers of coolness running through my hair as we glide into the downhill slope, cutting into the still air, gravity taking hold of the chest's interiors and bringing them up to my throat with every loop. Drifting in, drifting out.
"It's one of those unpleasant opoid feverish half-sleep states, more a fugue-state than a sleep-state, less a floating than like being cast adrift on rough seas, tossed mightily in and out of this half-sleep where your mind's still working and you can ask yourself whether you're asleep even as you dream. And any dreams you do have seem ragged at the edges, gnawed on, incomplete."- David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest, 1996
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