Life, or what’s left of it changes to a different ground state. Still indeterminate, still challenging, still energized. with others, with the self, with the world, with all perceived, all known, all thought of, all sensed.
But, when infertile senses are gone, what’s left? A hollow (corpse)? A teeming emptiness? A plasmatic field? A soul? or no thing.
I prefer no thing. I’m tired of the endless material chase of noun, of structured and reductive sameness. The soul-less naming of the world. The endless descriptions, declensions, and derivations, not to mention re-creations and duplications. Enough is … enough. Gluttony gnawing at the root of satiation. The belly ever larger than the eye. Consume this. It’s gone.
And yet, fully immersed in the stuff of nightmares, no stillness of soul. The body wracked by energies of disorder. Has hypostasis reversed itself, abandoning body’s object?