I was falling. And as I fell, I reached. And as I reached, my balance uncertain. I twisted, arcing slowly while falling. The object, just beyond my reach; formless, shapeless, unidentifiable; spun with me, matching the contour I carved through space.
I tried again to wake myself up. I held my breath, dug the nails of my unreaching arm into its palm, and wept at the uselessness of my attempts. I tried to fall into a reverie, the feeling of weightlessness was really quite comforting, and I found myself thinking about the past, Atticus Finch,