To Speculators (first letter)

All that was meets you. You forget to sleep and fear is theoretical. Your hair and nails continue to grow inside those who miss you, forming a densely knotted entanglement with their own eventual deaths. Nothing disappoints and you remember all of the forgotten moments that have constituted the vast majority of your life.
Longing and shame succumb to timelessness. Some of the living change their ways, believing you are a witness to their most depraved thoughts, feelings and behaviors. You wrestle with phantom body syndrome and are easily lost to a memory of the sun on your face.
You wonder if world peace will be established in your absence and try to avoid earworms. You think your thoughts and feelings will be thought and felt again by people who will think and feel they’re the only ones to have thought and felt them. Nobody owns anything. You stop counting.