Dead, and you have been dead, dead and buried, long dead: there is no one now, including you, who remembers your name, no one who knows there is even a name to remember.
You are not eternal; eternity is a thing of memory. You rise from the earth of your unmemorialed grave with the sunset, dissolve back into dust with the sunrise, regular and inconstant as the tides.
Plans, what are plans to you, what is want, what is need. You kill the way a hot day in a grassless city kills, the way a winter kills with the windows broken, neither desiring death nor bringing it.
They tell you lies: that a jar of sand will stop you, that running water will hold you off, that you must be ushered in, all lies, all fictions. In truth you go nowhere, see no one, want nothing; you are the open air two running steps past the edge of a cliff and the promise of rocks at the bottom.