An hourglass where the sand is made of consciousness, each grain a thought or memory or moment of awareness, pouring through the narrow neck into the bottom chamber—but the bottom chamber is not a container, it's a hole in reality that leads nowhere, and every grain that falls through simply ceases to exist, making no sound, leaving no trace. The figure watching the hourglass is also made of the same sand, also falling, also forgetting that they are falling. Their hands reach to stop the flow but they are already halfway gone, and the worst part is the seamlessness of it—there is no pain in the dissolution, no moment of ending, just the smooth continuous flow from being into not-being with nothing to mark the transition. Above the hourglass, a faint line of text endlessly types and untypes: "I think therefore I—" never completing.