Two Eyes Cenote A Winged Insect to Your Funeral Pyre

She stands speechless in the middle of the room as the pressure of so many sensations bears down upon her. She smells everything acutely, the floral perfumes, the wetted air. Fungi blooms an eerie pale glow that casts shadows over the cobbled path. Every scuff of sound, every whisper here is magnified. The breaths she intends to keep quiet are loud.

“It’s poison,” her stomach turns and she cannot keep the dismay from creeping onto her face. How long had this been happening, right under her nose?

“What do you intend to do with this?” She fears she already knows the answer.