I remember nothing and all, unable to recall how long I’ve laid here. Memory is slippery that way.

Cold slides across my body, stiffening my joints. Brittle bones ache. My lax muscles remind me of my diminishing compactly.

My dry eyes no longer see. The last light waning some time ago, leaving me shrouded in darkness’ embrace.

Foul odor mingles with stale, musky air, extinguishing my appetite. Its tangled webs stick to me. I no longer breathe or move, trapped a shrinking shell. I find small comfort in my silken cocoon.

I scream, but no one hears. Footsteps pass me by. No one visits. No voices keep me company. Nobody warms me. Silence stretches around me.

Time marches by, my hope dwindles. Hindsight is a tricky bitch. I should’ve chosen be cremated.


Inspiring sentence:


I can’t move, breathe, speak or hear and it’s so dark all the time. If I knew it would be this lonely, I would have been cremated instead.