I would like to start with a sort of collection of great poems from great poets to trace a tender and invisible discursive lineage of the "thing that feel". Here, for example, the set-up is could be seen as very anthropocentric but it seems to me that a sort of first unavoidable and unchallengeble resemblance is manifested between human and inhuman. Moreover, this resemblance implies the important posthuman notion of death and life as a continuum of matter and not as two different states of the real (e.g. being and not being). But obviously this can be also easily framed through a schopenauerian interpretation to the horrible vital impulse that drives humans to reproduction, unhappiness exc. That's why it's only a start, a possible suggestion. For someone an implicit threshold that run through centuries and for others only a projection, a ghost from the future.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax. And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.