You are a round puddle of liquid, floating in a thick cradle of heavy gases. Currents of lighter, warmer fluid rise – you feel them going up, indistinct lines that cut ephemeral paths inside you. When these streams are still and unperturbed, the minuscule heart floating in your interior is surrounded by a brittle membrane. When your surface is still, when the masses that bound you do not move and you are reflective and little light penetrates your core: that is when the membrane becomes exceedingly frail and pleasurable.
Internal ripples spread from subsurface streams. They spiral quickly now, moving particulates and depositing them inside your core. Capillaries pulse at irregular times, choking on cumbersome bigger particles that your own juices could neither fragment nor expel. Each pang, each convulsion make you tremble, but you manage to force it down: and with each doubling down of stillness your core contracts in what is the most delightful sensation.
A whirr, a vibration in your centre, a contained discharge of fluids, the limit, the barrier just before it. Thump! And then another surprise burst; the refocussing of attention, the redirection of attentiveness. Voluptuous differences of temperature and salinity; oh, the mere thought, it is far too much! You won't be able to stop the vibrations from ruining your brittle membrane. But then, somehow, you manage to stop them and tension disappears and juices on your surface keep still and the brittleness intensifies. It's a syncopated wave that swings inside the biggest, emptiest sphere making tantric mandalas of pleasure. You want to stop moving forever so this luxurious delight can continue eternally.
With a flutter, light finally penetrates you. The membrane shatters and liquifies. Movement has returned to your surface — but the sensation lingers in tiny specks of ghost pleasures that float inside you.