S. - Ship of Theseus - Pg 64

 Time slows, allowing him a thought, a strange, wordless association of color and shape: the waterspout and the drink in the young woman's glass. Then a collapse into singular doom: pressure punches his ears; black fills all the space above him; his limbs loosen with a warm readiness for death. He may or may not scream, he won't recall, but there is a tremendous crash.