It is dark. Flailing my arms I reach out to grab anything substantial only to feel a soft and spongy and yet solid tightly stretched wall that is impervious to my attempts to get out of this confining space. I kick out feebly, toes stretched out reaching for something of substance to press against. Fluid squishes and floats around me, thick with unidentifiable substances that cling to my downy skin. There is so little room that my neck is crushed into my chest and the cheek of my face  squished on the bony shelf of my shoulder.

The total silence is numbing. My immature senses are tuned inwards, turned on by electrical synapses that flash across my frontal lobe, impulses that jerk my arms legs and hands in a strange un – coordinated dance of the wallflower. No thoughts of any substance occur in my brain, the cells splitting and forming new groups constantly, breaking off in clusters, floating in a miasma of culture, it appears I am not yet complete. This is the zero time, the circle of life is not yet begun. This is life in its infancy.

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