Painting of a city with a giant yellow ball in the middle of it

There is nothing left. No sky, no ground, no air to carry sound. The world is neither dark nor bright—just an expanse of undefined space, where color once existed but now only lingers as a memory too faint to recall. There is no contrast, no depth, no beginning or end. Just an endless stretch of nothing. The body moves, but not by choice. Steps are taken, yet the distance never changes. The weight of existence should be there, pressing down, anchoring flesh to the world, but there is no gravity, no resistance, no sensation. The hands extend, yet they touch nothing. The breath continues, but it is not felt. The concept of presence has unraveled, leaving only a shell where something real once existed. The heart does not beat. It has not stopped, because stopping implies it was ever there to begin with. There was once something inside—warmth, sorrow, longing—but it has eroded, faded, drained into the void like ink washed from paper, leaving no trace of what was written. The thoughts do not form. The emotions do not stir. The silence is not just around—it is within. There is no longing to return. No urge to move forward. No question of how or why. There is no regret, because regret requires something to be lost. There is no fear, because fear requires something to be broken. Only motion. Only absence. Only existence without meaning.

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