All of us are floating in darkness.
Perhaps it's a warm organic darkness, a closed-loop tank of pulsating amniotic fluid. Or it's the air-conditioned sterility of outer space, a universe drifting further and further from its own centre. Either way, it's dark, and we are in the darkness, and of it.
We are blind and our ears are stoppered by nothingness. We are fetuses lacking umbilical cords, moving where the currents take us, gently bumping into each other and floating away in the opposite direction. Sometimes someone reaches out with an unseen hand and makes contact, and we try to reciprocate, holding on to their fingers or wrist, until we get tired, or they get tired, and then we let each other go, back into the unending darkness.
We always let each other go.
When we die, we disintegrate slowly, atoms taking years to descend to the absolute black of lower regions. And then they are resurrected in other people, new people, people no different from those they were made from. They rise up full-formed and join the vast continents adrift above. Masses of matter, in the dark.