There is nothing inside. There is nothing accumulated worth accumulating. There is nothing worth carrying over, continuing as a mental work of art. There is only death. This daylight, the walls, the sounds outside, occasional thoughts…nowhere to go at all except here. Nothing to think of, except about what is here. No life, no death, no universe, no time or space, no dimensions at all except those temporarily built by thought for thought to make sense of itself to itself. Here, just the barest of things with no tide.