Shall I ever die? How could I experience the end of all experience, or be conscious of final unconsciousness? Besides, it’s the born who die, and I own to no birthday. What is the death rate in my Species, and what precedent is there for my dying? What doctor would write out a death certificate for a patient who has always been decapitated? Of course, the hands that are typing these words, like that head in the mirror, are already disintegrating; but there’s nothing here to suffer the least change. This no-head will never go grey or wrinkled, or grow a second older. No disaster can touch this Container of all disasters.

From The Face Game by Douglas Harding, page 89.