Amoebas in Ink. Choking.

Something silly.

         He felt like an amoeba--no, he was an amoeba. The oxygen was his plasmic fluid, a jelly-like medium for him to move about freely and a quasi-hunting ground. Other friendly protists would swim about and propel themselves past coolly:
         "Whoa, bro! Nice flagella!"

         Occasionally, he would whistle and tip his microscopic top hat as the girls passed by. So was life as a tiny organism, nearly invisible.

         But he wasn't an amoeba. He was a human, drifting half-consciously through life because he chose to be surreal. Dreams were opiated reality; reality was lucid dreaming in three dimensions.