Existence presses in against him. Black viscous unrelenting pressure only tightens when pressed against. Each breath is a vicious struggle. Every step fights forward in an impossible dream of momentum. Choking sobs are a simple waste of energy, like screaming in the dark. There is no direction but forward. The past is an immovable wall of insistent force. The way ahead sparkles with busted glass. I don’t have any shoes. This ends in a Diehard metaphor, I guess.