Ancient words spoke in syllables unknown vortex about me in forms of growing smoke. Ghosts of times passed swirl about, their eyes locked to mine and mouths wide, tethered to me as a center point.
Life must be chosen once per day but the reaper must only make one deft move. The smoke continues to rise and tighten, the spirits muted howls fade in and out, and I cough.
I choke and cough as the smoke fills my lungs, desperately trying to expel but I fall. There I lay, wheezing and hacking, A rejection, a fight, a resistance, longing for the clean air that I did not believe until it was gone.
My throat burns dry and bruised, but the smoke does not stop its growth and the chants grow louder still, filling my mind and shaking my skull.
The smoke fills my lungs to capacity and I call out but it comes as another cough and another after, again and once more, my eyes watering and hands gripping chest, until at last I gasp one rattling inhale and Fade to black.