I walk. One foot in front of the other. It's not that hard. I walk on the dark gray asphalt, and it pricks at my bare feet. In front of me, there is nothing but a sea of black. It is so dark – so, so, infinitely dark – it looks almost solid. And yet I float right through it. My feet slapping the pavement and my steady breathing are the only sounds. The black is so silent it rings unpleasantly in my ears. So I open my mouth to sing. To chase away the stillness of the night. But what starts as a happy tune soon morphs into a blood-curling scream when my foot never meets the ground. My knees buckle and I find myself falling.
I fall. Down, always further down. It's not that hard. I fall through the thick, suffocating black and it steals the air from my lungs. Below me, there is nothing. My arms and legs are flailing, but I am falling through nothingness, and my limbs find no purchase. Terror wells up inside of me, before erupting out in a piercing scream. My body hits a hard surface. The curb. All my bones are broken, my muscles aching, my skin torn open. I endure a lifetime's worth of pain in a single moment, then it evaporates. I rise, and walk on.
I walk. One foot in front of the other. It's not that hard.