The Black Sack/The Fall (Pre-Release)

Floor tilting. A heel gone. Ceiling folding down toward you. Shoulder against weave. Knee against rib. Nails dragging rough cloth. Breath coming back hot, no farther than your own mouth. No distance. Only weave. Down. And down. And down. Clawing. Choking. Twisting. Kicking. Begging. Falling. Black around you, black beneath you. Black before you, black behind you. Weave above, weave beside. Nothing opens. Nothing widens. Push, strain, scrape, call. Call, scrape, strain, push. No horizon in the sack. Shoulders striking the sides of it. Dust on your teeth. Collar soaked through. Ground still dropping. No stair. No hinge. Only the going-down. Every room you knew, shut behind you like a door that only opens once. Black around you, black beneath you. Black before you, black behind you. Weave above, weave beside. Nothing opens. Nothing widens. Push, strain, scrape, call. Call, scrape, strain, push. No horizon in the sack. No more of the sum. No more of the polite. No more "not my hour." No more. No - more. The only country you have left. Everyone you loved, behind you now, and far. Mud in your mouth. Mud thick and close as another body's warmth. Mud the last shape left to hold. Then something tears. Not weave - deeper. A seam gives beneath your spine. Cold air on your face. Your hands find open ground. Air. Still now. The black stays behind you. Past the torn seam, something pale is gathering.