A look without, within. Nothing remains; your purpose is vapid, absent. Your only worth is your constitution, your courage. You decide that the only contribution remaining to be made is your life. To pass on your virtues, you sacrifice your body to the natives, a tribe of Pygmy mystics. The last thing you remember are little hands tearing at your flesh. Are they pulling you up from the pit of nihilism into a greater existence, or are they pushing you down deeper into the abyss of eternal nothingness?