They dress you in a gown and send you to a room on a stretcher, carried by two complete strangers. In the biting cold of the new arena which claims to be a Sterile Zone, you chuckle to yourself at the irony of binaries, for who knows how contaminated the sterile can be. You lie there silently waiting for things to happen. It's nothing new, for that's what each day is like. Another stranger arrives. He tells you with a smile how he will inject a medicine down one of your nerves which he says will hurt just a bit. By this time, you are laughing in your head at the natural amusement of reassuring polite lies. Which was the last time, dear fellow Sapien, that a knowledgeable being, though compassionate, could gauge the intensity of hurt or sense how much pain a painkiller kills. You smile at him politely, in consent, still fanning your ego, as if you had an option! He does his work with perfection and covers your hand in a white bed sheet. He tells you it's done. You tell him you know, what has been done and what still remains. The theatre is ready for the act by then. You are taken in and placed on the stage. Two fancy spotlights alight your being. For a moment, you feel almost angelic, washed as if, by the lights of heaven! Privacy is a myth. There's a crowd around, busy with parts of what you had always known to have been Your body. Copyright floats around like a nonsense rhyme, but under those lights you no longer care. There's a flash of a thought about anxious dear ones waiting outside, but that's another world, and it's almost the same as any other day - each in his world through an eternal wait. You can't afford nostalgia anymore for the stage is set, the scene is ready and the characters are here. Your role is little. No dialogues. Just two deep breaths, and then lights out. Words are heavy, words are dense. Oblivion is one of them. Too many syllables. Little content. 

Wings are prone to flight, as life is prone to death - the meaning of each, self-contained.