Discarded Despairs of A Soul Destined For Depression

The grief that looms in the other room, across that paper-thin wall.... it's overwhelming. It catches you by the throat as you fall from twenty stories high and it won't release until you can no longer gag. When finally you give up the fight and exhaled your last breath, it let's you fall again into the despairing darkness.
It's an endless pit. You can fall for a million years, you can even grab hold of branches sticking out from the walls and hang on for dear life. But your arm can only support you for so long; Eventually, even your own body will disappoint you. And you continue falling.
Doesn't matter who you are, where you're from or even what you've seen or done. Be a saint, an angel, a psychotic serial killer. You can even call yourself God, it really doesn't matter. Because you'll still fall.
You can keep your secrets: your hopes, dreams, failures and those wet dreams you've had of your best friend's girl. When you're lying in that wooden box, your silence will be eternal and no one will ever hear a word of it again. Or you might choose cremation, spare your remaining kins the trouble of having to tear themselves away from their selfish lives to come clean your grave every once in a blue moon. Considerate, aren't you? Still, it doesn't matter. As you ashes grace the earth, the wind whispering to the world what remains of your glorious life, you'll disappear for forever more. Gone. From then on forth, you will be referred to in the past tense.
Love will kill us all. Torture your heart, milk your body dry of whatever nonexistant soul and embrace you in the fires of damnation.