My depths contain no leviathanβfor they are one. I am within their gut. No journey to my center is possible; the search is for escape. How long ago was I swallowed up? Was I born here? Is there even an outside world at all to be digested and spat out into? One expects a confrontation with one's shadow to pose great risk; does not expect to discover that they were the shadow all along, or that both self and shadow are held tight in the grasp of a darker-still goliath that renders all such disunity foolishly irrelevant. We are both survivors here, my subconscious and I . . . A cosmic creaking and groaning comes now, the closing-in walls of some great digestive tractβphysical or conceptual, I do not know. I set out to find myself. Something has found me.
