Y'know how you wake up and there are echoes of your dreams and whatever you were thinking about before you went to sleep bouncing around your head? There's always something.
Except sometimes.
I woke up once and there was nothing there but black, black, black. No echoes. No nothing. Just the most profound nothing you could ever imagine.
Opened my eyes and it was not the bathroom ceiling I was used to, it was something weird and lights were coming on and people were saying things like "he's awake!" I'd been helicoptered to the Big Hospital, sixty miles from where I fell asleep. I wasn't expected to awaken, but I had, and I kind of lay there, digesting the news. I couldn't move my arms and my fingers were stuck in what felt like Chinese fingertrap tubes. Turns out I was in restraints because some fool doctor had tried to take a biopsy, so I clocked him, and the fingertraps were those blood pressure/oxy content meter transducers. I couldn't make sense of any of it and couldn't form a word so I went back to sleep. But the one thing I remember is the blackness like none other. There's no light you go into; it's just black, black, black where nothing stirs. Nothing there.