It’s a lot.
The world around you thumps—sharp, unrelenting—clutching your head in a vise. You see everything, yet nothing. Each breath falls short, never enough to make it all fade. You cry and cry until you become the weeping angel: a stone-hard exterior shielding an interior that cracks, crumbles, and collapses piece by piece.
Then, silence. The thumping fades.
Farewell, old friend. I wish this weren’t the end.