OUTSWEEP, INSWEEP, RECOVERY

There's years of space ahead of you, all those aching lungfuls of chlorine blue, but still you can't stop. You're an awful, monstrous aquatic monster, but it's okay. You're doing the only thing you've ever been good at, ever. Those hungry lunging handfuls and frog-kicks propel you down through the water, just a little more forward than back. The sort of motion that reminds you of running in a dream. Above your head are all those fetid worries, all that junked-up noise. But down here, as you follow the chipped black stripe like some religion, you feel as if you're actually okay.