姜至明又死了。这一次他一点疑惑也没有，自己肯定是真死了。
因为，在“眼前”连黑暗也没有，更不要说光明了。
由于姜至明不学无术，没有文化，他跟本就没有联想到“空性”之类的概念。
只联想到他的一个朋友的一句话：能知道自己死了，能叫死吗？那叫一种特殊的活。
所以他并没有大吃一惊，还在正常思考。
姜至明生前是个公务员，对许多套话很熟悉，此时他又联想起了一句酒桌上的话：
无产阶级一无所有，失去的只有锁链。
这下自己真的一无所有了。
但是这个自己还在。
这叫什么呢？孤魂野鬼吗？
名不副实。失去了大脑，即便真在田野，他也看不见。有田野也等于没有。
他还能听见。
他听见一片寂静。
如同身处黑夜的沙漠，只是没有黑，也没有暗。
最糟糕大概就是没有触觉，没有冷热。
换了别了会有一种心理上因为恐惧而产生的寒冷。
但拜他那位话痨朋友所赐，他多多少少早有心理准备，现在还有一丁丁点好奇甚至兴奋。
Here’s an English translation of the excerpt, adapted to retain its tone and style while ensuring clarity for an English-speaking audience:

Jiang Zhiming's Second Death

Jiang Zhiming had died again. This time, he had no doubts—he was truly dead.

Because before his “eyes,” there wasn’t even darkness, let alone light.

Jiang Zhiming, being uneducated and unmotivated in life, didn’t think of philosophical concepts like “emptiness” or “void.” Instead, his mind wandered to something a friend of his once said:

"If you’re aware that you’re dead, can you really call it death? That’s just a special kind of life."

So he wasn’t shocked. He continued to think normally.

Before his death, Jiang Zhiming had been a civil servant, well-versed in clichés and empty phrases. Now, another line surfaced from his memories of banter at the dinner table:

"The proletariat owns nothing; the only thing they lose are their chains."

Well, now he truly had nothing left.

Yet, he still existed.

What would you call this? A wandering ghost?

That didn’t quite fit. Without a brain, he couldn’t even see the countryside if it were there. A field, present or not, made no difference to him.

But he could still hear.

He heard silence.

It was like standing in a desert on a pitch-black night, except there was no black, no night.

The worst part, perhaps, was the absence of touch—no sensation of heat or cold.

Someone else might feel an imagined chill from sheer terror.

But thanks to his talkative friend’s musings, Jiang Zhiming was somewhat prepared for this. In fact, he felt a tiny flicker of curiosity, maybe even excitement.