We’re not leaving this bedroom – ever. This is where we’ll always be. Even when we’re not here.

 

These hours, lost in the afternoon. This afternoon, lost in the day. This day, lost in the week, lost in the year, lost in forever.

 

Doing all this in broad daylight. It’s bright, bright. You can’t hide from the sky. Not here. Not with your skylight.

 

That’s the light of god, quivering on the floor. That’s God – the light. He’s here. He’s with us.

 

Total obscurity. Total irrelevance. We’re castaways of the afternoon, the eternal afternoon.

 

The day’s fallen out of step with itself. Strange lakes of time. Pools of time. Just lying there. Reflecting the sky.

 

The day’s got lost. It’s wandered from itself. We’re calling after it, like a lost dog.

 

We’re in some split off universe. Some ox-bow lake universe that’s broken off from the real one. From the real flow of history. This is where time’s got lost. Where time’s forgetting itself.

 

My God, we’re just wasting time. Cooking this up out of NOTHING. Conjuring it out of NOTHING. Why bother? Why anything?

 

What do we add up to, we two? What do we add to the universe?

 

There’s no one to witness our shamelessness. To really tell us off. To really upbraid us. And there’s no one there, just the … afternoon. Which means we’ll always feel disgusting, just disgusting, because there’s no one to forgive us.

I forgive you.

You can’t forgive me and I can’t forgive you, that’s the problem. Though, God knows, we don’t deserve to be forgiven.

 

I’m glad there isn’t a God to see our shame. In fact, he’d kill himself if he saw us. God would strangle himself in heaven.

 

Stop – you’re making me cry. I always cry when I think of God.

 

We’re falling into the afternoon. Faster and faster.

 

Looking up at the skylight. Look at the sky – so white. Like a great white eye, seeing nothing, just blind. Looking down at us by not looking down at us. Seeing us by not seeing us. Witnessing us by not witnessing us.

 

We’re, like descending and descending. Like a spiral staircase into the earth, just going down and down.

 

The skylight … that’s God’s judgement on us. The absence of judgement. The nothing of God, capital fucking N. God’s fucking Nothingness … God’s here by not being here. God’s present by being absent … A beam of god-light. A shaft of light in our room.

I want to be fucked by a shaft of light.

 

Are we torturing ourselves, or is God torturing us? 

 

Is torture the way God shows himself to us? The thorn in the flesh, right?

 

God’s dead, baby. God’s dead.

Who’s watching through the skylight, then?

No one’s watching through the skylight. Unless your husband’s climbed up there.

I don’t think he’s interested. I don’t think he gives a shit.

Is that why you’re doing this – to make him notice?

 

We’re perverse. We’re disgusting. And we don’t know how to be anything other than disgusting. We want another twist in our disgustingness. We want to surprise ourselves in our disgustingness. We want to indulge in new depravities, just for kicks. We want to go further down the fucking spiral. To see how far we can go.

 

And there’s the patch of light, quivering. How symbolic. How perfect. Is it supposed to teach us something? Something about our futility, or something.

About our impurity.

It’s just light, quivering.

Seems peaceful.

It's watching. 

Watching who?

Watching us.

It's blind.

That makes it worse.