The Circle of Life

         Black, then the world is crashing around me; its walls' peeling red paint almost shining, or is it just a figment of my imagination? I am an insignificant being, its existence unknown to many but one. These are the thoughts of a dying soul; its last thoughts as the world continues to crash, the paint continues to peel.
         Red. A sharp pain stabs my sides, as if countless fingers are digging into my flesh, my soft skin. Liquid drips out and the world that was once there, the only world I have ever known is falling with me in it.
         Stark white, bidding me farewell. A soft plop; anticlimactic as my world ends unnoticed, I welcome the heavy rush of water. I cannot seep into the holes, I am a mound or rather, a bag of blood. The circle of life, forced into another blackness; a gutter of empty tears.