You are dead now. It is not the first time, but it feels like it. It always has. And now… again. You are even bound to think this state becomes ever newer with each repeated case of unsolicited death. You find yourself in a prison of sorts: cold, dry, boring. Colorless time grips your gray matter, though you feel, feel rather than see, some tints coming back from a subdued horizon. They smell and sound. Strangely enough, you find yourself not welcoming them, still clutching to the lifeless reins.

Palo Fabuš