"Hell is where the meaning of death has perished: nothing can end the lethal agony and torture leading to death, not even death itself. The soothing alleviation that death brings on wholly dissipates, the misery of the body becomes eternal. Death repeats itself ceaselessly, just as dust comes back no matter how plenty you swab, or as sleep, which will succumb you at night no matter how abundant your slumber was the night before.
At night, the body falls asleep (dies?), the spirit awakens, and takes off to the world of dreams: hovering specters amidst the infernal city. At night, if walking more absentmindedly, one's gaze will find them. They voraciously transmit luminous and sonic signals to the living, although not everyone grasps them.
The specters have not been convinced of death yet. The delusional being feels alive as long as a curious stare revolves upon them, or when clicks of the shutter of a camera interrupt the recurrent silence of the night. After all, the characters of a novel do not come to life unless someone reads the book."