Image is from www. zerochan .1064089(without spaces) and is not mine.
It starts with a skipped heart beat. Next the cold touches linger. Then is trying to forget. Afterwards they explode in shrapnel, broken shards of something once whole. They become despairing to lose control of flesh. Along comes the memorising of how earth used to feel. With it is detachment, from the body to the mind to the understanding. It seeps like poison down the useless veins. It infects the stilled heart. It is said their souls are wasting away. They knew though that the dead had nothing. There was said nothing more. They were memories of before and were ghosts from tomorrow. They are the nonliving. Already gone. They don't want to see; they let the muscles relax and their eyesight rot. They learn to be blind. They know to be ignorant. They feel the bliss crawl into the poison and wrap around it like silken robes. They hide everything. There is no pain anymore. The worship falls to no one. No one comes for them. No one cares for their festering carcasses and haunted remnants. With it they feel a slow flow of power swell and circle and seep from their core. They linger, longing for a life that was tangible as they were not. They are unstable, dispersing into the frigid winter air that rolls in from their dirt graves. Nothing calls, no abyss, no sky, no molten red. Emptiness coils around the brain, squeezing out humanity and allowing cool apathy to take its place. Life can be seen now as short lived, as cruel and joyful and bittersweet like spring passion. Inevitably, they do not remember why, nothing but how. In the deep nothing and numbing solitary of the coming death that lets darkness always win over, they let go. In this end, death doesn't look frightful.