Here it is, a number. Death. Again.
A siren, lights, and a hospital bed.
Better to be bed ridden, than ridden of your bed.
Better to be head hurt, then hurt without your head.

Cross-eyed at Attikon, staring at Heaven's gate. It's murky, but you can still make out the shapes of things. It won't last much longer, but you can't really think about that. It hurts so much. You can't think about anything.

At 4:00 AM, the line became flat. Instantly, Celeste became Immaterial.