...yet the morning comes as light and burns its eyes.

No matter how much coal you add, the flames of Hell don't seem to disintegrate it.

A corpse that wishes for a coma...

Being dead or non-existent is a conception I can only deduce in manipulations at best. There is nothing better to do than to manipulate in Hell- a corpse that can walk, but all worms in Hell decline to touch it: think of a wet specimen that is from a world of formaldehyde.

or thinking that you were a zinc plate for eternity... Do they even think? They do reflect soundwaves for sure... Who cares?.. You'll tell yourself that material can not have comprehension or ability to think; yet here we are.

It's like waking up one night and sincerely believing that you were an owl for a good five or ten minutes... Your talons, your beak and everythingelse... Everything before that was a dream dreamt by the very owl. A dream fading into dust, to ashes...

Without meaning, there is no "value". When there are no places to put your values on, inevitability sets you so light that your feet become unnecessary. I believed that this was what it meant to die: to be fragmented into dust, to become unrecognizable by the thing you called "yourself".

An Autoportrait?

...but the head is fractured…

is it though? There are so many pieces. When they stare at each other, they don't even recognize one another! ...and they just keep on fragmenting and fracturing into dust and then particles until the meaning is no more.