Buried Alive - Diverse written things

Can not see, can not hear. Only the smell of the night. Blood is what is left when the acid intensity of honesty and innocence has deserted an otherwise empty body. Birth is a disease, here. Rotting flesh since the moment it was brought to the shadows of a cold light. He knows he had a name. It doesn't mean existence, it only means a name, right?
Can not taste, can only smell the smells of fear.
"What is me?", he asks himself for no reason but forgetting time and its consequences. Carrying things dead and forgotten is no use to him, so he leaves every thing he meets behind. Not much left. His palms on the cold stone, his knees in the mud and the vapors of urine entering his nostrils in an obscene waltz, a grotesque parody of elegance.
All around him is a ritual, a ceremony, a vast structure based on chaotic conventions and nauseating rules. He cries because the salt tastes nothing like it used to. It tastes nothing and it's like dead water. Water without a substance, as black as ynkwater only invisible to him.
He crawls and is nothing but moving flesh and creaking bones.
He never was anything more than that.
Sensations have started abandoning the ship and he is left with an awareness. But he believes that if he scratches long enough, loud enough, the awareness will eventually go away with the rest of his personal world.

Maybe...

If he scratches fast enough.

There is a song in the Graveyard. It rises like a bubble of hope in a glass of cold, tasteless beer. He likes to hear songs. It helps him. Makes him able to locate a victim easily. A thud. The song ceases and fades, forever lost.

Can not see, can not hear. Can not smell anymore.

Another day spent crawling on the surface of a gigantic graveyard. The world below is rotten and its stink ascending to the skies until they vomit unholy waters upon the skulls of both living and dead creatures. He knows the Graveyard. He is losing his senses but can still recognize the shape of every hole to the touch of his old, strong hand.

Why won't the awareness go?

"The present can never be reached. It flows backwards and we feel it only as the past, the crippled result of its instantaneous metamorphosis. In other words, the Present can only be perceived as his disfigured twin brother, the Past and we can never trully avoid looking at it, for there is hardly anything else to look at.

The ballroom is full, and all costumes are made out of time. People laugh fake laughs, smile fake smiles and drink fake wine. The wine is the blood of their own wounds. The floor is made out of sand fallen from a broken hourglass. Count, now. How many "now"'s in a "then"?
The costumes are melting.

The invasion of time awareness starts slowly, with the calm resignation of childhood. But it soon marches chanting deadly verses as years fill the hearts. The hearts are full of ink. So many stories are engraved in their rusted beats.

Memories...

Breathe... breathe when you can.

So much time is wasted struggling not to lose it.

Nothing is ever here and now. We do not master anything."

, a forgotten erudite once wrote in a forgotten book.

It is frequent that the first world a child born in the Graveyard learns to pronounce is "sorry", because it is the word his mother tends to tell him the most often.