Dead.

Sneaker. Creeper. Crawler. Funeral parlor.

As I walk on down the hall. My scalp feels too small for my own skull.

Chills run up and down my spine. I catch a whiff of varnished pine. No, that coffin can't be mine.

There the coffin awaits. Waiting to seal my fate.

Maybe, just a quick glance inside. No, I can't be the one that died.

Sneaker. Creeper. Crawler. Funeral parlor.

There I lay, as cold and stiff as clay.

Pale and gray, I guess I'm not okay?

Face to face with myself. Knowing I can't do anything else.

Better climb inside and close the lid behind.

Sneaker. Creeper. Crawler. Funeral parlor.