Death…. as I imagine, must be this place full of tattered scraps… fields of minds lost to time who found haven in a sort of darkness… an emptiness that is all-consuming. When death drags your limbs under the dark, sticky, tar… you are lost, maybe not now but to be. You will be forgotten and you will forget. Existence cannot thrive in that purple pulling void… and to live is to thrive, so whoever dies is simply gone… dead. Whatever is actually left without the self? The formalities we so convict, would be embraced in death…. welcomed because that’s all anybody knew. And with time the memories would fade, similarly to how a self might… The many corpseless entities, I’m sure, would wander. They would dream however they could…. dream of something more than a simple vex, they would indulge in fantasies of colourful expeditions. A clockwork cycle made for eyes to consume, something that grabbed onto the trails of belief and walked in the past tracks of individuality. I’m sure they would dream, or attempt to imagine…. life



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