It is night; dark, windy, cold. I find myself clinging to the top of a spire of an abandoned cathedral, 300 feet in the air. I don't know how or why I am up there. I am terrified and exhausted. It feels like I am losing my precarious grip.
There is someone else up there with me, a magical person who can float and fly. He is immune to gravity. He does not understand why I am afraid. He is telling me how to move so as to climb down, but he does not understand how exhausted and scared I am. I know if I release my hold even a little I will plummet, because I am so weak. He does not seem to believe me. I close my eyes and try to cling more tightly, but I feel my grip slipping.
For a few moments I contemplate choosing to release my grip voluntarily right now and get it over with, instead of waiting for my exhausted muscles to weaken to the point of failure. Those are my only two choices, because the person up there with me will not rescue me directly, he will only give me pointless and irrelevant advice that will not help me. If he wanted to he could grab hold of me and float us both gently back down the earth. But he does not.
And so I get to choose how to die -- let go on purpose now or lose my grip and fall involuntarily later on, while the one person who could help me sits by and offers useless advice.