Entropy gnaws at you, perched atop the corpse of a dying world. Dimensions mingle like post-coital fluids. Your senses struggle to put it in words. It tastes like dry, windborne dust. It smells of stinking, maggot-eaten carrion. It feels of rough, uncouth rubble. It tastes of weeping plague sores. It sounds like the crackle of dying cinders. Senses beyond the five you were burn with recall how it started.