ᏓᏂᏍᏔᏲᎯᎲ ᎤᏃᏴᎬ ᎤᎷᏨ ᏥᏙᎬ, ᏣᏁᎳ ᏧᎦᎭᏲᏛ ᎠᏓ ᎢᏓᎵᏍᏆᎵᏍᎪ ᎾᎥᏂᎨ, ᎤᎾᎵᎪᎲ ᏄᏍᏆᎸᏨ ᎢᏕᎲ, ᎠᏰᎵᏒ, ᎾᎥᏂᎨ ᏨᏍᎩᏃ ᏧᎵᏏᎬ ᏧᏫᏗᎸᎪ.
When the brittle crackle of shots reached me, not appreciably louder than eight dry sticks breaking, it seemed allied with the brevity of life, with time, the sound we make as we fall through its abyss into darkness.