I'm reaching for the amber-colored curtains in the otherwise furniture-less, plain room. My hands are reaching towards it, but as soon as I get close to them, I drift backwards.

It feels like I swim in molasses. Each time I reach out, each time I take a step forward, each time I drift back, farther away from the curtains...it's slower than how it should be. It's hot in this room. I can feel beads of sweat on my hairline, and it's as if I was in a oven while it is baking. After struggling for what seemed like the beginning of time, I finally grasp the end of the fabric. Like being wound up in the sea and threatened to drown, I hold on to my piece of debris as the forces try to drag me away from my safety...