I guess this is what the Nunos of old, bless their misunderstood remnants, felt like to the cursed: weight felt but unseen, chest heaving, exhausted from doing nothing (vis-a-vis not doing something, says an old bit of lore), yet fatal if left to persist for considerable amounts of time (their patience in exacting vengeance is admirable, though I suppose it is to be an expected vendetta if one’s abode is soiled with the stink of humanity), the victim dying amid frantic gasps for breath that cannot come as lungs fail to inflate under an unyielding squat. A slowly but steadily building burden of invisible residue, growing weight, oxidizing joints into the most effort for the mere semblance of motion: disappointments, disapprovals, rejections, deprecations, whether real or imagined (At this day and age when at least one person out there acknowledges the intricacies of psychosomasis, is it even relevant to debate this?), making the question of how many floors it takes to feel that split-second of weightlessness an even more tempting curiosity to take out of that dark corner where it has always been kept and stare, keep staring at, until it consumes, and someone once again makes an argument for psychosomasis, which argument another inevitably disputes for lack of empirical proof, for what is the mind but a mere conjurer of illusions, which are by their very nature, not worth appreciating.