Dead things always seem vaguely preoccupied, which is to say happy.
As Nietzsche, Mary Shelley, et al predicted, our failure is of acquiescence to insatiability:
To be loved.
To be happy.
To be entertained.
To die old, ugly, yet comfortable in fake knees, hips and dick pumps.
We are the conscious, self serving failure of evolution.
The de-evolving tech/growth cyclone running every well dry.
Murder of body/soul our only means of revenge;
our one harkening to true, invincible death.