It’s 20° below zero in a tent on a bog in a howling, whistling storm, and I’m panicked at sinking into the bog and trying desperately to chew my way through the ripstop nylon while sinking slowly into the ooze - - - so that I might somehow escape to the nearby warm and sunny and well-equipped luxury lodge towards which my outstretched fingers are madly but futilely grasping; but the the damp messy muck slowly envelops me until I am submerged but as soon as I'm underwater I'm instantly, miraculously enveloped in the warm, strangely dry and majestic ribcage of a giant fish who conveys me towards the luxury lodge and as I'm salivating over the forthcoming hot toddy on the terrace of the luxury lodge, the waiter in real time is announcing the arrival of a steaming plate of freshly cooked swordfish entrée for which I no longer have any appetite whatsoever.
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