Panic is like being lost in a fun house—the old kind of fun house that had slanted floors, floors that broke apart into moving pieces, cobwebs that grazed our skin, spinning barrels we had to walk through, dead ends, distorted mirrors, benches that collapsed us onto slides, and sound tracks of demonic howling. we never knew where we were.
Will someone come and get us if we can’t get out of here?
The rules had broken down. Our usual smarts couldn’t help us.
It was illusion.
We knew that going in, but we forgot.
Panic is like that. Illusion.
Knowing that going in helps.