Desolation

I am dying in a chair. I can feel nothing but an absent breeze whose very presence torments me. And I’m watching over myself from a perch in a high place. And from that place I see myself explode and decay in a beautiful display of colors clashing, like needles and sharp things. And by the end I’m still observing, safe and satisfied with the rubble, waiting and ready to slosh around in whatever’s left.