jonpvandermause
The ship has been capsized, and, if my estimate approaches accuracy to any meaningful extent, I'd wager I have around 3 minutes until the cold, encompassing waters consume my body and consequently swallow all that is of significance in this life. I had suspected, earlier, that when a time such as this had rolled around, I'd be in a panic. It's blissful, rather. Oblivion is here.
To hurtle forth into the dark oblivion is now, at the ceasing exertions of my wit, the sole extent of my desires. And how better to carry out such a malicious end than to drink of your sweet charity? Rend my innards to your villainous conquests, and to the dark earth send my wretched self.
It manifests itself in fashions far beyond the mere contents of the cup that lies before me, and you. The house we've built from ground up is ridden with its ever-reproducing parasites; our words, our fretful dialogue, all of this is laced with its subtle, decadent traces. Can we escape? Hardly; ingrained in our nature it is, a testament to our stagnant spirit.
It's clutches are ineluctable. It surrounds us, and we are, like all that composes our environment, a form of poison, yet with one particularly marked distinction: we are potent. We spew forth decay into the habitat serendipity - or blind happenstance - has established as our living quarters. All that we touch dies, or forges forth in pathways of decline and decrepitude.