I’ve always had paralysis dreams: dreams where suddenly you’re wading through a treacle that’s threatening to set. Or, even more terrifying, where the slow motion is happening in fresh air. Where all  movement is thick and slow and deliberate; but it's full of terrible intent too. That’s the thing. Where violence is achieved at the very threshold of paralysis. That’s the terror.

   That's where we were, where I was, while all the time the consciousness of a child was perhaps forming out of the void, not quite yet a ripple, a wrinkle in the water, taking on a stringy sort of a substance.