No self now, consciously speaking.
No feeling your old self or new self, false imaginings if you think about it, self-conscious nothings everywhere you look.
No one to hear you weep or scream, making a go of it on your own, bye-bye.
No bosom of nature, abandoned on the doorstep of the supernatural, minds full of flagrantly joyless possibilities, a real blunder that was, the human tragedy.
No reality to speak of, nobody here but us puppets, contradictory beings, mutants who embody the contorted logic of a paradox.
No immortality, ordinary folk and average mortals coming and going, can’t stay long, got an appointment with nonexistence, no alternative to consider, being alive was all right while it lasted, so they say.
No life story with a happy ending to tell, only a contrivance of horror, then nothingness — and nothing else.
No Free Will-to-live, no redemption by a Will-to-die, how depressing.
No philosophies to peddle, pessimism a no-sale, optimism had to close its doors, too wicked to pass code.
No meanings or mind-games, repressional mechanisms broke down, self-deception shuttered its windows.
No awakening from a dream within a dream, mutation of consciousness—parent of all horrors, best not mess with it, extinction looking better all the time.
No more pleasure, what there was of it, a few crumbs left by chaos at feast, still a good supply of pain, though.
No praiseworthy incentives, just bowel-movement pressures, potato-mashing relativism.
No euthanasia, bad for the business of life, you’re on your own there, but watch out for the eternal return, most horrible idea in the universe.
No loving God, omnipotence off duty and omniscience on leave, the deity He dead—the horror, the horror, even the skies of spring and the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison, blame it on the piecing together of dissociated knowledge.
No compassionate Buddha, Body Snatchers got him, heard tell, or some kind of thing, maybe next lifetime.
No Good-versus-Evil formulas around here, Azathoth running the show, human beings a mistake or a joke, something pernicious making a nightmare of our world.
No being normal and real, the uncanny coming at you full speed, startling and dreadful.
No ego-death—enlightenment by accident.
No way out of harm’s way, better never to have been, worst saved for last.
No Last Messiah, buried in the fingernails of midwives and pacifier makers, gone the way of messiahs past.
No bleakness either, a failure indeed.
No terror management by isolation, anchoring, distraction, sublimation.
No tragedies to read or to write, death kept at a safe distance past the vanishing point down the road.
No escape routes into a useless bliss, useless existence, malignantly so...
What now? Now there is only that unnaturally spreading smile—a great gaping abyss where blackness reaches out to blackness, nothing. Then: the sense of being swallowed. The story is done; the plot complete.
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