Suicide and the Open Window of Philosophy

I wrote this after I died:

When I stand, poised at an open window 30-stories up and pondering the view below : the streets and the masked insectuality of busy urban life, disordering and reordering along vectors of concrete continua : if I jump, I do not jump; when I jump I do not jump; instead, the streets fall into my window. Subject, predication, and object--which had continued my life by displacing themselves from one another, separating out into the most vivid hallucination: acting as boundaries for one another, stabilizing experience-- the triangularity collapses, the streets fall into my window and a newfound instability proves to amend a lifelong transgression; yes, I flow with the rhythm of reality (sinusoidal-me, apex-ecstasy, leaking out my ears on the descendency) until slowly, very slowly, a discontinuous display of naked patterns with no extension and lacking any duration secure the non-existence of my 'I.'

And that is all.