The moment Quagmire fell down to the ground as exhaustion took him out, and the darkness that engulfed him almost immediately, he knew that there was something wrong. It was not the gentle drift into the fantasy world, nor what is typical of the sudden collapse of the mind into unconsciousness.
No, he felt that it was as if he was seized by unforeseen hands and was pulled under. A tight heaviness pressed down on his chest like an ocean coming back from the tide; the weight was so crushing that it forced the breath out of himself before he could draw it back.
He was painfully aware; he thought that he was having sleep paralysis. The familiar prison of monotonous stillness, the body locked in the confines of its own flesh, as if it were its own coffin, while his mind desperately scratched for the lid.
