Paint It Black

"The body. That had been a source of so much joy. But in the end, it was just a hunk of cold chicken, wasn't it? A weird flesh machine, that kept breathing in and out, mindlessly, digesting, shitting, Bosch on two legs. Good enough to carry you around for a few decades before things started to go wrong. No difference between this body and a load of dead animals carted out from the animal shelter. And there would be fifty years more of moving this puppet thing around, creating other puppet things to replace you. The thought was unbearable. She felt bluish white and raw, like an Egon Schiele woman..."