We’ve fallen out of the world. We were never in the world.

 

When did it go wrong? When did we become like this? What wrong turn did we take? We were once a son or a daughter or sister and brother, and then?

Here we are, transformed. Old, maybe. Crabbed, maybe. Grown strange. Grown twisted. Grown wrong.

 

We’re thirtysomethings. Supposed to be able to make our way, fulfil our promise. (Laughter.) Supposed to have accomplished something. It’s time now. Supposed to have done something. (Laughter.)

 

And we’ve been trying our hardest, that’s the thing. We’ve been doing our best. But our best … (Laughter.)

 

We’ve been allowed to live. Why? We’ve permitted to live. To do what good? To amount to what? To add what to the world? (Laughter.) Everything we do makes things worse. Even our talking about making things worse makes things worse.

 

I really think we should be struck down. Come on, God, strike us down.

He’s not striking us down.

It’s proof God doesn’t exist. If he did exist, he would already have struck us down. We would never have been allowed to pass our PhDs. To publish things. To get jobs, God knows …

 

We’re waiting for disaster, that's all. We know it’s coming. All our lives. That’s our role: we’re watchers, waiters, ever vigilant. And when it comes – what then? What will happen to us?

Oh we’ll go under straightaway.We’ll be annihilated. In the blink of an eye. We’ll barely know it arrived, the end.

Let it come the fuck down. 

 

And yet we go on. And yet there’s more time – still more. And yet there’s more life. Things are living. We’re living, too. Our hearts are beating. We’re breathing – my God!

The wonder: that our bodies don't just shut down in shame. That there's some capacity to live, after all. Some automatism. Some basic animal perdurance.

We slide on. We stagger on. We wander on. We slump on. We roll on. It’s a miracle! It’s an anti-miracle.

 

How do we distract ourselves from ourselves? That’s the problem.

How do we distract ourselves from the horror? The ceaseless horror, that is everywhere. Of which we’re part.

 

All these animals still animaling. All these insects, still insecting. All these singing things singing, and flying things flying. So blithe, so insouciant … The nature machine. The universe machine. The sea still sea-ing. The sky still sky-ing, The sand …

Yeah, we get the idea.

The way things are. The way they’ll be forever, pretty much.

 

And our chattering, in the mix. Our layer of chatter. Of complaint. Of lamentation. That’s what we bring to the world-party. To the table of the world.

 

Talking bollocks. That’s what we do. That’s just what the world needs – more bollocks. There’s enough talking bollocks.

Yes, but we know we talk bollocks. We know it’s all bollocks.

That’s no excuse. Self-conscious bollocks makes it even worse. We should know better, and keep quiet. Seal up our lips.

That’s the worst thing of all: talking bollocks about being quiet, about wanting to be quiet, etcetera … On it goes, the talking machine. That’s what we bring to the universe of death.