He drenched himself in a scent so thick that it was almost visible

He was like one who had half fainted, and could neither recover nor complete the swoon.

He was in a terrible state- that of consciousness.

Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

He was so full of disgust, disgust at the world and at himself, that he could not weep.

Scared out of his seven senses.

Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans... Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed.

It was like drowning, only from the inside out.

He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry

He had come so far from himself that I don't
think he knew who he was anymore.

"Heaven! What have I done?" exclaimed he. "The vapor, the influence of that brute force,—it has bewildered me and obscured my perception. I have made the very stroke—the fatal stroke—that I have dreaded from the first. It is all over—the toil of months, the object of my life. I am ruined!"
And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered in the socket and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness.

He forgot his wounds, his hunger and thirst, and became fear; hopeless fear

I am so plunged and submerged in the source of his infinite love, as if I were quite underwater in the sea and could not touch, see, feel anything on any side except water

Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies.