In for a penny, in for a pound; into the casket, into the ground.

it's all bones, down here. it's all dancing and all watching. it's all lipless smiles and the endless, unrelenting sound of a thousand woodwind chimes as we march, weightless, t'ward the incredulous glow of ember. 

Hell's a lot more fun than they promised you in catholic school, albeit a little more routine.
what i'm trying to tell you is that I've found my dream job in the afterlife, digging ditches and rattling in the breeze.

 I mentioned smiling earlier, didn't I? It's hard not to when there's nothing left to cover your teeth. At first they dry out, pull back, split and slough off, then you laugh for what feels like the first time at the absurdity of what living was. You laugh again at the equal absurdity of what flesh was, what race was, what region was, and start to wonder down in the howl, or by the fire, or at every perfectly seedy martini bar you visit, how liberating breaking free from this form would also be, someday. 

The universe must be a monolith of flesh and form collapsing and decaying into spirituality, ether, and energy, collecting all the bruises from life along the way.

 I feel that things lose purpose when you give them titles. Or at least, cease growing. When you stamp something with a title that usually means its done and you can move on from it just to fall into the infancy of another idea. Sometimes, you write the title first and you're doomed from the start on what it can be. This is what life looks like when it imitates art. 
History has made some beautiful, terrible mistakes from things left unchecked too long. Massive, perfect ironies.

What's that?
'Into the silence, the defiance of sound.'

Hah, I like that. I like that big. To defy sound is to embrace that serenity too, is a protest. and these vessels are made to wade through cacaphony and chaos in equal parts. 
maybe.