The scariest experience that could ever happen to me, that I acknowledged in imagination before, really occurred to me. I was in one of those glass elevators exposed in view to the outside of the building, and its glass containment did indeed stop without breaks. Falling falling as if the gears of latitude start and stop with activated defense against churning round steadily, in constancy. My head turned around in its own decision to see carpet gray sides of my little box office level with my eyes. This rectangular wall it was not falling down, but the entire elevator was succumbing, in gradual steps, to free fall. I knew about physics and was well trained in the steps of acceleration which was just gravity tainted by friction, but physics changed me to a torn delirium that the upper poles through which the elevator shafting was enabling and driving, if up was the direction, or, I strictly wanted to believe that it was a very weak and chancely opportune of inhibiting. Too much action was going on to review my forced commitment to the inner workings, because I wanted to sound smart in this respect, whatever this conceptual and precise estimation was leaning into my satisfaction for. Mechanical, I wanted to be as mechanical as possible, while drawing out the entire maximum potential of my brain. The elevator was falling so slowly I realized, that it was truly equal in acceleration or speed, there was a correct answer, but I knew I couldn’t figure out. It was slow that the elevator fell multiple floors before hitting the basement ground, horrible that the glass view slid into the gray darkness of the underground parking lot. It crashed into the ground like a crack in sound waves, but like the vibrations of an tectonic underplay that crashed with tingling push’s and pulls at impossible speeds that jolted in various magnitudes inside the body at the horizontal plane. It was like a sick joke, the torture that commenced afterwards.

Contrary to common sense, the chamber of engrossment that I had entered from a regular lobby was surrounded by, in indication to the glass sides, yes it was visible cars and parking structures with randomly placed poles that a strange feeling of emotion created, could only fall to the description of holding on with slippery and huge hands to the miniature poles that surged the piece less shatterless downward crash. I panicked and panicked but all the buttons, I had tried in a state of uncontrollability, of lights flickering and dimming, flickering and shutting down. With the strangeness of the crash, I thought that there should comedically accompany with the whir, some formal deviant of the childhood association from tv, of machinery shutting down. This is when the elevator seemed to have own will of doing what I didn’t want it to. Reaching toward the cars yeah obviously but it wasn’t apparently obvious to me to escape from the elevator as goals, because who would be called not robotic if the realization of what needed to be done in crisis immediately reacted to the danger or trapping that had occurred to them, in perfectly corresponding timeline, and the fear would never distort the realness of what happened. A segment of the glass hallucinated towards me, but since it didn’t really near my eye and I was treating away from the present crisis that it was actually sucking out like heated glass in an inward direction, no no yeah Mr. Dawson, my science teacher: we didn’t need to know the functions of cognitive illusions that resemble the innermost transitions of unhurdleabiliry and morph with the explanation of rotation. What a bore and waste that science class was, and my inferiority of having no scientific questions of mind blowing content. I suddenly wanted to become a Houdini solver even though the glass was unbreakable, and some genius and turning the sold material of the elevator chamber into sharp pieces, so sharp they could shred through glass itself with just a drag on its protected surface. Like a dog imbued with human spirit in a glass made house in which his human parents wished it would imprison him and unleash his neck to tameness, he nn Cookie decided to press wet nose against the smooth front pane of a naught naughty dog house. It was without any remembrance or expression or time that going to the pane and licking would even be remembered: Cookie the dog. And I was panting like a dog with my slightly protruding nose, the nose it was Asian, and effectively preventing my breath from reaching to directly to the window pane, it was rather the breath thinning out with gasp potential breath to the cold window. I could feel my thick lips folding inwards as if they were triangular fragments of mean willing like a fortune teller grandmother comfortably inside a traditional family who spoke to the kids often, but never in nice ways. The air when breathing was really hardship in effort and comfort became extremely purple in fumes, like it was recognized by the air detector inside the air itself that it was pressing out in juice, the juicy extract of air capacity leaving in diffusing rate through the crack of the wall. Don’t judge me, I said, in response to the wet cells in the air as a confrontation to the cartoon of paper that I was giving to this crisis. Aluminum foil over my eyes that would help, and not directly betray the limitations that I had of insideness to the box. Maybe this was for me, because the strain on the lungs and failure to breathe properly was getting to be a little too desperate and suffering for me, that all these promises of firefighters breaking through the elevator shafts seemed to have no realistic need, that they would even have any way to pry through any sides. Harder and harder would there be a solution in my head to unlock the image of despairing apathy that all sides of virtual reality would be to give me, the neural network dissolving and warping to a point. Treat me like a prince a void noise issued in my head. It was then I knew that the goal of conceptual solving and the suffering and ruckus auditorium silent inside my brain was also beckoning to solve using the brain, so answering the voice inside my head would definitely solve the riddle. There are masterminds and psychoanalysts of real unfair control who subjected to the underground elevator and really prompted, penetrable brain who must respond to, or if you think that prompt discussions can be competitive, that it whispers to deities but I was never willing to raise a god with humble deigning inside my imaginative world that was really pretty and actually responded for me, when my own logic should determine any question that comes my way. I choked painfully, and tears rolled down my face. Salt and splinters, that was what the control panel people wanted realize inside the puzzle I had been physically conformed to that it’s not possible to break through physically with a forehead hammer, god forbid! Another dash of pain stroke to my forehead in recognition that yeah, the milestone of the forehead hammer not working, this is crime report language, was not obtained in the beginning at any time, but after the pain moment now, it was already solidified.

Salt and splinters, could it be the best impression one had given under such possible scenarios, that the salt would melt anything and collect like ocean water on sand like salt on burning sand, glass? That’s the cringiest analogy ever, and doesn’t extrapolate to any other comparison. Salt and melting that was emotional power, but I reasoned out loud so that the big man could hear me, wanting prison bars to slowly fizzle away wasn’t a sign of power to the mental problem at least. The mental problem was like a mental prowess to be the mental problem, the mental disorder, in kind to actually sympathize with the “prince” questioned. Powerful powerful, my last impression which Half of it, one of the two words, salt, could be the ingredient to poison that dissolves flesh, and overly numerically that it can infinitely more easily overpower the inanimate; like an element of periodic tendency to combust already predicted as a property, the poison is an entirely new substance that can burn the material away, with no lame miniature reactions that squeeze glass into more tight particles rather than actually deleting matter. Once I said matter, I immediately reacted that this was cringy, but rather not more sophisticated than that I questioned, without urgency, that the worry towards matter was instilled in me that I felt without in or out direction when in praise to myself I thought I could always repel negativity someone else gave to me and it would not directly enter of the other only said hurting words to me. Princely fashion, this guy was playing hide and seek to say words only riddles themselves can respond appropriately to. And with defiance, I said, one two princes had lovely faces when does prince say I like, you? I am the Queen of a small breathless country, I can’t treat you as prince when my little prince and princess is on the way from my breathless pregnancy, and force these princes to grow up to be faster and prove greater worth than you, mine are better, I am certain, so I will never see you again after mine are born. No response, just a piece of sedation tha feels so good. So you like me like this. Randomly, I am aware of randomness, I decided to piece together the requirements of poison from this prompt to incorporate yes poison salts inside the poison. Poison to solve your commands that I must solve the issue inside your little box of prompt to comply to thinking to solve the prompt, and I know secretly that pooka is a facet of the clues outward, that wasn’t my first understanding up to now but poison to solve inside myself and you give me the idea of another person? I know poison is not guaranteed within the circumstance that needs to be solved but actually that it speaks to the mind calmly as a tool to use to unlock. Poison myself so I can become the warning itself, so that crime can find me and save me. I just use the salts to make a poison potion which my flailing lungs can’t answer to but just blacken, and the hospital workers must see to it that they are in dire condition. Prince, I know you are the little prince, and princes are most scared of court jesters pouring them a bone marrow of mushroom juice, sending their funny little harmonica to the nostril of a royalty. Is it that disgusting that I need to do my lungs black, and the only way is to blacken out my little small lungs to admit I’m poisoned and people will be lured in to save me from the elevator? This seems to apparent to actually come to fruition, however my small lungs surged up in defiance: I knew that I had to reach inside myself to blacken them. Rather that I thought something, and it was just so true that the tragedy to exist to me was true, and it did not exist for anyone else. Dad put me down in the basement, he had verbally warned before like empty shots, but he said he had keys to the elevator of some kind of hell’s nature: it shut down because I have said, no, dad, no poisoning Mom, when she said she was smarter than me and was willing to bet the number on her life, quite literally there was a chance for submission. Elevator sees why, it doesn’t, it saw number in superiority