Brainwaves approach the flatline. Impervious. Nothing can phase the threshold of this consciousness. The lights are on, but nobody's home. Flash of stimulus.

Sound washes over the senses, sensitivity to musical nuance heightening with every moment. Every note is a piece of eternal bliss. Yet still, the flat state vacancy is unmoved. Unperturbed.

Drink in the sound with unquenchable thirst. Every drop is worth the world. The soul is a bottomless, insatiable black hole of spirit. Infinity is not enough.

Roll tape. Requiem For A Dream. Act 2. Final shot. A piercing, high pitched tone permeates the air. Pan camera in a circle around the darkened room. Slowly, the television moves into frame, where the omniscient eye comes to rest. A test pattern. Center frame. The blank, high pitched tone intensifies. A deafening, haunted spell. But there is no one left to witness the wake of the torturesome insanity. The apartment is empty.

Pile on the sound waves. Increase the decibels. Pour thick garbage over it all.

The impenetrable wall is untouched. Hanging, suspended over the void between the world of the alive, and the unknowable beyond.

Increase voltage.

No response. Status unchanged.

Commence with the lobotomy.