/lit/ - Literature

There have been nights smoking weed alone that I get this jag of absolute metaphysical terror about death, the sheer nightmarish novelty of knowing I will close my eyes and never wake up again, the horror that the death state could possibly lock me in my decomposing body for a subjective eternity (I really shouldn't fucking read the more exotic theories on what happens after you die), or that on the other side is some demonic terror dimension that awaits all life and existence is just a marinade... but other times the fear chemicals aren't there and I see death as the ultimate escape, Willy Wonka's golden ticket out of this oubliette of carbon.

I have never gotten closer to touching the monad of my soul than sitting there contemplating "the forsaken solitude of death" as Shestov calls it. I urge every anon for whom death stops being a redditoid abstraction to sit in that feeling and see what swims up to meet you out of the depths of your being.

What are some books that will help me prepare for the inevitable neo-gnostic renaissance?