Death by cloud.
It seemed that sentence could be a title for a ridiculous novel or poem when I first heard them uttered.
Something written by some poor sappy, heartbroken person who was taken away in a cloud of morbid despair.
I could probably see myself reading those ridiculous words too at sometime way past midnight stuffed under three thousand blankets.
Now I can’t even think of reading at a time like this.
Because the cloud is killing me.
A giant cloud of poison funneled into this vault while I slowly breathe in the toxins.
Of course, if someone were to see me right now I would just look like a fish flopping about on a dry deck in the scorching sun.
But my mind is still pretty clear as the cloud begins to invade me. The cloud hasn’t killed my mind yet.
I can.. think and process how I’m dying.
I can still.. Think about me inhaling a cloud named death.
I can still see the cloud.
Wait, no I can’t, because my vision is gone.
Wait. Why is it gone?
Something about a cloud.