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Whistle a happy tune
You whistle a tune as you descend deeper and deeper into the depths of the canyon. The canyon walls speeding by have already dimmed to twilight as you stray further and further from the light of the surface.
You note that as you descend your happy tune has morphed into The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Soon it becomes too dark to see your own hand in front of your face. After that, it gets so dark that you don't even have white cartoon eyes in the darkness anymore.
How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Days? You float weightless in a black void. At some point, the rush of air past you diminished to nothing. Now there is no sensation at all. You can't even feel your hand in front of your face.
You try to whistle, but you're not sure if you have lips any more. You're not even sure if you ever had.