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It takes a little listening to get beyond the darkness and the silence. There is no geography, no marker as of yet, even to allow for a feeling of disorientation. A memory for color suggests that there is none of that, either, although the closest equivalent would be a blackish mauve whose heaviness oppresses and obliterates everything that might be submerged within it. Since there is still the ability to remember things, to place them in some taped-together form of chronology, and since, apparently, there are still thoughts and impressions to add to this chronology, there is still a progression of time. And there is a comfort to this condition, or whatever it is. Somewhat to his surprise, this feeling of comfort comes to an end when, from the depth of wherever he is, there comes, from a distance, a noise.