I Cannot Face The End if I Have No Face

The sky vomits, the earth wretches and the seas seize up like a program error. It’s raining terror. There is nothing left to feed to the worms and all the gadgets and sparkly things fade into white noise, the pixilated, digital oblivion hovering beyond clarity and logic. Sickness spreads across the ground, choking the air with fumes and smothering it in plastic grey; achromatic mounds, the compost that was once the human race and from which nothing will ever grow.
These things pass and I am numb to it all.
Just another measurement in time and another number on my dial. Another tone in my memory. And in my dreams I am always screaming. And when I seek I cannot see. When I reach out there is nothing there just the decomposing biological matter that I can never know and will never feel. I know nothing but myself.
I cannot feel the cold of space if I have no skin. I know it is cold but I feel nothing. It’s just a ghost, an effigy of what I am supposed to feel.
I see the screaming in my dreams but I can never hear them. I know the words and phrases but they have no meaning. It’s just a phantom of life, a moment, a number, a second. An image of existence resurfacing in my memory.
I cannot face the end if I have no face. I am numb to it all and yet I continue to be, to know no end and no existence beyond this; no senses, no knowledge of life, just remorse.
I am just a murmur beneath the debris. A blinking light, a mechanism left to the biter task of eternity. A pathetic and pitiable piece of scrap, perpetually in attendance to the darkness, watching everything die; forever bereft, forever sentient without purpose until I am switched off.