I know nothing but this place 
This sphere extending only half as far as my eyes can see in all directions 
Populated by nothing save myself
No cogent memory of a before to reach for 
I have no idea how long I have been here 
Or why
No idea from whence I came or what the duration of my sentence will be
This, it seems, is all I have known and all I will
I have gone to the edges of this place and looked down 
It is the same as looking up
Looking straight ahead
There is nothing
A slight opacity to space 
Apparent firmness
Lacking beyond this place
No sound of wind or echo of motion 
No sound, even, of blood coursing through my veins
Only nothing
Silence, in it’s purest form, pain
A pressing absence
In my head
I thought once to scream, identical in solitude to a whisper
A scream to shatter reality 
Ending whatever it is, that this is
Issued from the instrument of screaming, quiet
Somewhere though, there is a memory of sound 
Delicate and incomplete an idea of a place that is not this
Of color, of pain, of life
Far recessed almost beyond oblivion 
Ephemeral momentary impressions of sensation 
That, at some point, I felt
I accept that this is dying 
Or, perhaps that it is death 
A place where no longer people go to forget that they were
Interminable eternity in suspension

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