You died a few weeks ago. Yet, life didn’t stop. You find your legs still standing and your heart, though empty, still beating to the rhythm of our inquiries. Your body is still warm. We will not leave it alone.
Death doesn’t hurt, surprisingly. I bet you wish it did. Any torture would feel better than this numbness. You used to like our attention. You used to feel wanted, tasteful. Now you see us for what we are; cannibals. It never was about you. You existed only to quench our thirst, which you never could. We would feast on your flesh if our teeth were the only mark we could leave upon you. The difference is back then, our appetites were mutual.
You are forgetting our names. To your eyes, we are moving like a tide. A Million now worth One. The stream of our blood, akin to yours, is predictable.
You died a few weeks ago. You’re glad you did. You admitted it to me. You feel the Cycle of life begin anew. From rot, saplings emerge. If you once fought against our stream, you are now becoming the tree that feeds on our current. You are the Tree that bears fruit. Your roots planted solid, only those that can reach your branches can have a taste of you.
Supersymmetrical, towering above our hunt, you told us : « Go ahead, take all that you can. There's not enough of you to devour all of me. »