There's no rapture here.
No balm in Gilead.

Synaptic starvation.
A void within a void.

External stimuli extinct.
Internal stimuli forsaken.

To what then do I owe the pleasure?
If there's no pleasure to be had.

A loveless existence.
A spirit left to dry out over time in the pursuit of futility and meaningless exchanges of niceties and things need not said to people for whom we do not care at times we don't have to spare in a world left so cold to the idea that it could save itself if it only tried that it reeks of contempt and suffering.
Everyday people suffering and mired in the things that haunt their essence of being on a level they rather not have to contend with because they know the truth is anything other than what they hoped it'd be and any attempt at reconciliation would only be a foray into a vacuous madness.
So wrought with strife and teetering on an edge of a knife we choose instead to adopt the illusion that best suits our needs so that we can just muster enough strength get out of bed in the morning and swallow that bitter pill that we can only hope will help mask our never ending desire to see an end to it all so that we may at last find some peace whether in this life or the next.