Truth found in death

I’m awake while they preform their autopsy. I feel it all. The quick and decisive strokes of their cold and sterile steel. Poking and prodding, looking for what killed me. If I could talk I would put an end to this unnecessary ordeal. They uselessly searched for what they caused. How could they have known when they tried to help. Their distorted faces were public access, yet no one person could point a direct finger. We all could see them, contorted in their wretchedness. Their facade’s censor was highly attuned and adaptive. We saw only trails, remains, remnants, left only with the teasing hypotheticals of our imagination. We followed unknowningly, in search of truth. All we found was unfulfillment and death. Surely, we marked plenty times of joy, but those were fleeting. No matter how hard we held, it was consumed by emptiness. All we knew was the truth found in death. So how did I die? They same way you did. Even though I don’t know you and you don’t know me.

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