Synch Or Swim

I recently decided to type out an old experimental story that I had handwritten in a journal. Here is the first half of it:

 

WE were sitting out the heavy wait that had become our Friday nights of late. Our silent company giving the air substance. Slowing time until it was thick enough for even the faintest brush of cotton to ring a shrill, piercing alarm throughout the small apartment. And that is what happened. It came on as a slow rolling tide in the night. She issued forth such a steady, controlled breath, as not to disturb the settled debris that blanketed our luxurious sarcophogas. Until then, my selfish ego was contentedly lulled into lethargy by the idea of a friend in hell. A cohort in captivity. But this angel enchained sighed a sirens swansong that spoke both of dedication and suffering. Love and sacrifice. All in one perfectly pitched puff. Her pursed lips revealed a fire that swelled inside her. A long, smooth intensity that scorched the thread of my patient tolerance. Guilt came on unexpectedly, like a silent dragon in the dark, waiting to strike.
  My tongue twitched a spoken spasm. It writhed, lashing back and forth in its cavernous confines. Sounds stumbled out, rolling rhythmically into a stutter. Language rediscovered itself through fossilized ruins of disconnected syllables. Scattered strata of an archaic sentence structure carefully excavated. Mined and refined. Dusted and polished restoration of vocational vernacular.
"Let's go."
  The first two words that have ever bypassed all of the censors and conformed my mouth to their escape before an automatic sensory shutdown. Vocal chords must have been struck by invisible hands on an isolated island in the back of my mind. Leaving two confused receivers to sort through the rubble of the attack for some sort of black box full of answers. But alas, I am red-handed with the weight of the medium. Luckily, she plays the control in this newly constructed lab that I may play off her reactions until it blows up in my face. She is putting on her coat.
  As I keep face and let my fluttering hand take the keys to our freedom, analysis of the words continues.
  'Let's go.' Let us go. Who is 'us', powerful enough to momentarily take me over? And to whom would someone with such power be requesting a 'going'? Ours were the only ears in the room and so we roll. The new blood pumpling through my warming body suggests that the catalytic conversation piece was a godsend. There is even a moment where I conjecture that we conjured a spirit through the ouija board in my throat. Whatever it was, I am now closing the locked door behind us.
  As new ground is tread, we follow the thread which turns out to be ignited by sheer will. I've accepted the responsibility of those words, still floating fresh, that lit this fuse that we must refuse over and over, lest detonation ensue. And after what seems like forever, a message is relayed like pavement over the foundation of 'Let's go'.
"Where are we going?" she deftly inquires, with a fluent grace that can't be imitated.
  Her voice has the opposite effect on me than 'mine' did back at home. The self-inspection is cut short and introversion makes an exit out of the ether, tagged onto her line. She effortlessly executes each earshot with the precision of a delicate hammer, sharpening my now needed senses, led by a hearing as in a courtship ritual out of order, determining my state as sound and fit for society in full sensuality of the outside.
  'Where are we going?'