Deep So, you died. You had taken a few more steps across the moss-infested slimy planks. They were roughly entwined, and heaved under even the subtlest weights, crackling with bursting air pockets. Your brown leather shoes were encrusted with dense pillows of mud, textured like the crust of a French baguette. As your feet took their final few half-hearted endeavours, you let your mind split it's cells, with a million minute thoughts, buzzing like bumblebees in grotesque, random patterns. You took one last step and collapsed into the earnest water - sticky with treacle-like silt, long reeds, buzzing with hideous plant-#life, grown disgustingly in clumps, never showing any signs of sleep. The waters were sickly sweet with the smells of nectar, freshly poured from the canopy above. Several judgemental sacks of sap collapsed on your head, concussing you with sudden jolts, as if someone were dropping a rubbish tip's worth of vases on your head. The sheer weight of the sap pushed you down Suddenly, from deep below the murky waters something grabbed your leg, and pulled, with a mighty strength, downwards. You peered to see, but another inexplicable being grabbed your head and pulled. You went under, and choked on the unsatisfying currents of the water. Enveloped in death, every crevice of your body, inside and out, was filled with the same, seemingly endless liquid. It seeped into every pore. Dying, drowning and wishing, you became the last to die on this galactic mission. And nobody would ever care, for to them you were merely a part in their machine. For all the years of building their rockets, you were only the part to make it go - the object to hit all the buttons, and no hard feelings if you died. Enveloped by this agonising thought, one-hundred billion miles from home, it all ended.

Outlook That shimmering slice of glass, precision cut to the micrometer, undefinable ridges and curls inserted onto it's gleaming structure, across which not one speck of blinding sunlight could reflect. Across which, not one smidgen of greasy fingertip-induced remains could be implanted, merely for fear of the deafening pain, which would rush through your fingertips. Ignoring the oozing purple cosmos ahead, from which, dazzling flecks of light emerge, and bond in gracious matrimony to form quilted pillows of optical delight, a spectical to behold. Though it must be stated, for all the grandiosity of the spacial glories, barely the blink of an eye could be spent spectating their flamboyant displays, for the switches and dusty dials, reporting for duty must be tended to first. Never roughly though, but with the elegance and dainty precision with which you'd grip a infantile daisy. For one gram too decisively and you'd be sent outwards, spiralling with no remaining hope, severed lever in hand into the depths of the cavity through which asteroids entered and never returned.

Abyss An old door, garnished with a rickety bell pull and ornate bronze knocker. Atop the door, stood in majesty a notice, "please take any mail round to the back door" were it's unmistakable, rounded words. These words were scrawled, clearly in a last-minute pursuit not to miss a critical package from the lazy eye of the postman. The door-handle itself was once a stellar testimony to the craftsman who carefully carved each of it's copper curves and dimples. For years it had fought snow, rain and inexorable summers of baking hot skies. Nowadays, the only indication of it's former glory are the pillowy, gliding shapes of the original design, while the marvelous copper structure is marred by grimy layers of rust.

When It Strikes Razor-sharp pain flourished through his chest, as if a silver bullet had speared into his lung. His knees glimmered with the final few hopes of remaining upright. "it can't end yet". The words shimmered in his mind. Thoughts were like ecstasy now, the final nuggets of intelligence. Everything felt fuzzy, even his bones and his eyes and his toes and his fingernails. Everything loomed overhead with the dizzied glimmer like that which sit's, angelic, over a plume of fire. And then blank. He felt like nothing, and thought nothing, yet he still lay, far too conscious. Why couldn't it go? This reality was overbearing, if hell was real, everyone had been living there longer than time.