The harmony of sound and stillness holds no beauty, for me.
I lack even terror, in this wasted expanse of existence.
Where once I feared emptiness, now I don't even have that comfort.
"I think, I am."
I am, but I cannot think. Even "I" slips away: all that remains is is. No longer tense, I is limp being.

What is happiness? Happiness is fulfillment. Filling what? I? And even emptiness cannot exist without walls, ceiling, floor.
Questions slip merrily away. My attention gorges.

Fingernails gaze back, monotonous. The steady rhythme of their nothingness syncopates softly to the comforting chirp of crickets.
What do these frayed pilgrims,
These fleshless guardians,
What do they have to do with my body?