I don’t like this smell. I’m not sure, but it seems oily and salty. I wish I could see some source, but my vision is a kaleidoscope of flashing colors and blurred shapes. The pain at the base of my skull explains that, I suppose.

The world speeds up, slows down, then speeds up slowly. I roll across a limited space on a rough surface, like old, worn carpet, unsympathetically scratchy. Hard surfaces surround me and assault me as I shift within this tiny world. A soft mass lies behind me, the one refuge, though a worrisome one.

Joints simultaneously numb and in pain give conflicting information. Though I can hardly think, I know I’m not in a comfortable position. The thrum of a road beneath me sounds my death toll. A taste in my mouth, sickeningly familiar and salty, confirms my dire suspicions.

Encumbered as my senses are, one last sense does not fail me. I know without knowing. I feel without feeling. That voice in the back of my head, my extra sense, tells it like it is: I’m a dead man.