The end may come suddenly, but subsequent stories will contribute in ways that will - hopefully - form some kind of comprehensible lattice-type structure of... stuff.
This first segment is entitled 'The experience of a man underwater'.
The only sound I hear is from the gentle, bobbing light a few hundred feet in the distance. My eyes are fixed on it, but my eyes are underwater.
You're faceless above me, both of you holding me down; I feel as if I have betrayed you somehow, but at the same time your injustice stings. I feel no pain though, only the lukewarm embrace of the clear sea around my face, the up and down, up and down of that light in the distance.
It's not some kind of holy vision.
It's attached to something - a larger vessel perhaps - and it shines it's dull light only intermittently. Every now and then it falters with the breathing of the ocean, drowning me in melancholy, only to flicker back again.
Light though it most certainly is, it has the peculiar quality of illuminating only itself; for all intents and purposes it could simply be a torch with no bearer, but I am far before believing that.
The thought of some dread hulk beside me sends my eyeballs rolling, but only the light and your two masks command me.
We stay like this for what could be hours; a contemplative but empty state, that deeper state of consciousness where ideas are born as shapeless shadows, ready to be embraced, broken or simply float away. What of urgency now? I have only apparitions for company and they, expressionless (for they are incapable of expression) do little more than haunt my field of vision.
Then the light goes out.