The golden thread bursts forth in mucilaginous fury. Until the mouth is sewn shut, and the jaw can no longer clutch wildly at another scream. Dangle, wait, and bide your time until your innards gush forth from the holes in your head. The shell that you once called home becomes a maculate mash messing up the floor.
You live, for now, motionless in an above ground grave; just past dying, but not yet death.