
controlled in the bodybag
Under the cold command of the Airmaster, my pneumatic world shrinks down to the single tube connected to my ball hood, leaving my fate entirely in the hands of the machine. While I lie completely immobilized and pressurized within the heavy body bag, the Airmaster dictates the very air I breathe, switching heartlessly between a steady flow of fresh air, no air, and the humid, desperate cycle of rebreathing. I am trapped in a silent, shiny cocoon, unable to move a muscle while the machine makes me to endure the rising heat and the frantic urge to gasp as it recycles my own spent breath. Every hiss of the solenoid valves marks the machine's absolute control over my survival, turning my afternoon of inflation into a high-stakes game of endurance where I am nothing more than a living lung connected to a computer.
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