It's All About Technique

Going in, the overly-sweet syrup sticks to your throat, clinging to every surface as it climbs down. Going out, static-textured smoke that smells like medicine seeps from your mouth and buzzes in your head. It blankets you, calms you down. Makes you think. Each breath like the beginning of some scripted meditation, some zen-like policy. Your brain settles but stays awake. You let the drawings of hands and eyes drift by, relieved that the messages are slow and creeping. Sound files clipping--they should be alarming but instead they feel natural. It all feels natural. You let yourself sink through the floor and into all the various stimuli, and you experience.