" THE CONE "

I don't know who I am, or where I came from.



Or where I currently am.



It's very dark.



It's cool and airy. I'm not shoved into a suffocating space or anything



I can't see any floor or bottom. Maybe there isn't one.



All I know that I am currently clinging to a cone of some sort



The cone is cold.



It's feels rough, like a scratched-up playground slide.



It hangs from the ceiling like a stalactite.



I know it's a cone, because it's wider at the top and get narrower as it goes down.



I have my arms wrapped around it, clinging for dear life. My fingertips are barely touching.



My legs are wrapped around it too. I hook one foot over the other.



I don't dare let go.



I feel the rough surface scrape against my cheek.



I'm slowly, gradually slipping downwards.



I tighten my grip, but it only seems to speed up the process.



My fingers are now interlocking.



My feet are hooked on my shins.



I loosen my grip, but just a bit.



My descent slows, but not by much.



My fingertips brush my wrists.



My descent seems to be accelerating.



I wonder; does it taper into a point?



I can't really see that well. Maybe it ends in a bulb, or even a platform.



My legs cross at the shins.



Maybe my feet will hit something solid.



Any second now.



May I'll even touch the ground. Maybe this cone ends just a foot above ground.



My heels come into contact with the cone again, providing additional friction.



My descent slows but doesn't stop.



I try not think of what might happen if it really tapers to a point.



Once my feet pass that point.



Maybe the floor is below that.



Maybe the cone ends like ten feet from the floor.



Quite a drop, but certainly survivable.



My fingertips edge ever so slowly towards my elbows.



I slip downwards.