Death was a mountain in an empty plain. Four months she hiked, and four months again, and again four months; for a year and a day she hiked to come to the foothills of the mountain that was Death, and lost her name along the way.
There was a gate at the bottom, and it was open. No eyes kept watch of the road up the mountain of Death. She set her foot on the path and began to climb.
First to go were her memories, snagged in the branches of the silver trees that lined the road, where they hung, heavy as gold, among other, stranger fruit.
Next to go were her desires, lost in the sable darkness of the caves that pierced the sides of the mountain of Death. Jackals caught them up with teeth bright as diamonds, snip snip snap.
Last to go were all eighteen of her senses, blown away by the winds that clawed at the cliff faces of the mountain that was Death.
For an impossible time she was, but knew nothing. She existed, perfectly unaware, and neither heat nor cold nor distance nor motion nor time touched upon her.
Such were the hazards of the mountain of Death.