I am shaking; I am shivering and cold; I have chills and am feverish; this is my sickness, my deep sickness, my psychological sickness; there is no end to the depth of the sickness. What are all these guns pointed at my head? What are all these boots stepping across my throat, and these hands and ropes and hooks binding me and biting into me? I am tormented by the terrible creatures of the deep, by machines in the forms of men, by eyes and hands and eyes and hands. How can I escape but into death? And once I am in death will not the beasts still bite me, will not the tiny creatures from the crevices and waterways still sting me, will not the hands grasp at me eternally, will not the eyes still watch and watch and watch and watch? The eyes all about me do nothing but watch me; they are silent, they are the seeing things and knowing things—O I must flee.