Barlow flung open the gate and stared deep into blackness that lie ahead of him—a blackness that seemed to reach deeper than any he had experienced before; a blackness that, as he entered, did not merely surround him but instead seemed to swallow him as if by an infinite sordid chasm of metaphysical muck. Undeterred, he trudged his way onward in the dark, panting, as would a fiend, as rain sloshed against his non-existent being. It began to rain harder and the static roar that it produced became nearly insufferable. It cast forth voices that moaned in the night and Barlow, distraught but as yet still undeterred, screamed back at them. He demanded these voices relent, but as he yelled he soon perceived that he made no noise. Despite his efforts to speak, his words would not take form neither in his head nor in the external world to which he wished to present them. There he collapsed on the ground as the static continued to build and engulf Barlow in its rich and omnipotent droll.
Until finally it stopped and Barlow found himself lying in utter silence. Still in absolute darkness, the setting was somehow different. The air was thinner and emitted an odd musk. The ground was not wet as he had thought but merely cold and made of a smooth foundation of stone and concrete. In the distance (the distance?) he thought he saw something (a light?) faintly buzzing which unquestionably drew him as would a moth to your patio lamp in the heat of the summer. And from that point on his goal, his wish, his entire existence depended on it: causing all memory and history to vanish in its languid counter-textual glance.