The feeling of disappointment comes like a sharp blow, not so much as a stinging slap, but rather like a swift kick to the nuts. It spreads outward and upward, an echo of pain in the lower stomach covered by an a thick blanket of deadness, as if the nerves themselves are withering and dying. The bleak feeling rolls and flows with a slowness akin to suffocation. Amidst the pain is a deep heaviness inside. Such heaviness that cannot abide defying gravity and everything drops, falling away like a severed elevator. At the same time air intake has stopped, cut off as surely as if a noose had been placed around the throat. People talk about panic but the panic barks on the heels of peace. To be honest the peace is fragile and limited, a flash of insight, a brief moment of satori, before life exerts itself. The body refuses to die without a fight. Inside the lungs the oxygen grows stale, used and recycled, it requires expulsion and the renewal of fresh air but the time for that has passed. Safety is out of reach.