You are awareness and sharp extremities. Your body is a shrivelled sphere of thorns. You float in interstitial liquids, constrained and squashed by soft walls claustrophobically pressing against you. Nutrients used to trickle down from them, but the fountain has dried up and all you have left is the violent oppression of caresses that carefully avoid your spikes.

You shrink in silence and expel the interstitial liquid gathered in your lungs; shortly after, you swell and shriek. The walls bleed as you bang against them, blue liquid mixing with amniotic fluid. You hungrily gulp down the blended humours and repeat the process with added intensity. Fluid-filled chunks fall off the walls; you drink and chew everything you find — soon, your prison is dry.

Some of your spikes have already fallen to the ground. You continue your escape to freedom with limbs and appendages: you claw at the walls with grace and gentleness; you caress your prison, plucking strings of fibrous material, each strand spitting out sound waves that sharpen your claws and feed your desire for freedom.

The process is long and you often grow tired. Whenever that happens, you absorb some of the liquids that now pour constantly around you. Their metallic aftertaste revitalises you. Your cage seems to lose its strength as well: it quivers and its walls weaken, breaking apart with the softest touch. Your remaining thorns continue to make progress as their tips are worn out.

With a desperate and exhausted last punch, you feel a rush of coldness. You scream and cower in a corner of your prison. The cold nevertheless beckons you; you rip the final strands of the walls, by now nothing more than blue cobwebs that dissolve almost spontaneously. You climb out of your prison as it falls behind you, lifeless.