Outgrown human shells litter the earth, emptied and abandoned long ago. I've planted mine and watered it, but nothing has sprouted yet. We grow out of, but never into. I peel apart in layers and I'm starting to wonder when I'll reach the last one, or if I already have. The sandpaper skin underneath should be rough to the touch, but my hands are numb. I have to look down and make sure they're mine. I watch heat waves rise up from the cracks in the pavement and pass right through me. I offer no resistance, I have nothing left to give. I sold my soul for some peace of mind, but it hasn't been delivered yet. It's lost in transit somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow. The voice in my head tells me everything I need to know. I ask no questions because there are no answers. If there's no afterlife I don't want to die. If there's no end to this I don't want to live. I'll just keep on as I always have, drifting through gray tinted days and in and out of consciousness. I'm perfecting the art of invisibility. I see the ghosts of people all around me, but I have nothing to say to them. We're all just passing by, on our way to something else. Never something better, but at least never something worse. We won't know we're there until we're ready to move on.