Suddenly he realized he felt like a ragged empty shell of worn-out meat.
Trying to keep the shape he had formed his entire life into until then, he started to shiver.
The combustion was gone, all that was left was the memory of heat.
There was, however, no pain.
He wanted to feel the pain, real bad, but it had left with all his other lodgers.
Like if it had had its importance while it longed, sheltering him, revealing itself to him when it was gone.
His pain had been working as an essential organ all that time and he had been convinced, more, certain, that he had to soothe it to have a worthwile life.
Pain had kept him in shape.
Pain had kept his engine running.
And now he floated surrounding emptyness, surrounded by noise.
He was quite convinced there was still some spark in him; according to his actions outside in the world of apparences it certainly seemed so, even more, much more than before.
All his innards were projected outside and he didn't have clue if that was a good thing or not.
The emptyness he used to feel at his edges had moved to the inside, and the richness he had felt at his core had shifted to his surface.
It dawned on him.
That was the spark:
Everything was reversed.
He had no idea whatsoever who he was.
And he had never been so sure about what he would become.