Midnight Fever I

What if we're inside a coffin, a wooden one, and we're six feet underground. Buried, and finished. Well, not totally, we still have an axe. But instead of using it to break out of the box, we chew the wooden handle. we keep on gnawing on it. Who cares what kinda wood it is, as long as the woody juice comes out? It takes us days to finish up that wooden handle, and make cellulistic drumsticks out of it. And once we're done with that, what's left is the head of the axe, the heavy, sharp, metallic head. We try to gulp it down, but it's way too sweet, we search for salt, but there's no salt around. Just woods, cloth, and the clay outside. Clay, is like flesh; soft, wet, and once we make a scar on it, it doesn't take time to heal. But that's way too phylosophical shit, err, I mean clay. The thing is, we, all of us, we're inside our individual coffins, and we're buried, deep down, near the heart of the mighty planet, very near. We had an axe, a last chance of escape, but instead of escaping, we just dine on the flesh of our chances. But all good things must come to an end, and when the dinner is over, what's left? The hard to digest metallic head, and a lot of clay around. And then the question arises. We're stuck, all of us are stuck inside these itsy-bitsy coffins, and there's no way out, no way out left for us. No more chances.
"But then, what will we dine on now?" That's the question. Pretty deep, huhn?