Now we are here, and Death is here, and Life. And something Else, that throws one die to fix your pattern for the future. There is strife, and stridency. Subterfuge, and, then, tender remonstration. We glide away, no oars.
Tall monks expectorate the little puffs of dust they wet, then wait.
Approaching you, these golems hesitate, then strip you bare, and bind you fast with tin and copper wires. You don't resist. Your breath, too shallow now to cloud a looking glass, expires without a sound. You welcome Death. You wait in vain.