We walk through this great corpse, rotting magnificently, and we light little candles that glint off the teeming maggots' heads, and we say, This is daylight!
This is not daylight. Blow them all out, all those opinions. Wait till even the wicks are cold, and lie down with the maggots in the dark.
Be patient with the wriggling and the smell. Fold your hands over your breast, and wait. Till the flesh drops from the overarching ribs, and the blaze lights up the opening cavity, the afternoon sun coming through the bars. Wait, even then. Till the dripping stops. Till every wriggling thing is born, and has flown away. Till all the scraps that have sifted down onto you are dried and paper thin, and blow away.
Then you can get up, and step out between the clean white bones. That will be daylight.