Who isn’t dead? Who hasn’t died? That’s what we’re looking for: the living. The last living. Non fucking zombies. Where are the tonight? Where are they on the last night of the world.
Is there any further to sink?
Much further.
Are there anymore deaths to die?
Many more.
You can’t burn out if you’re not on fire.
Are we on fire?
We’re on fire. And we’re burning up, on the last night of the world. We’re the world’s fever, in the night of the world.
Who caused us to be born? To feel these things? To be struck down by these things.
Are we totally insignificant, after all? Does anything we do matter at all? Does anything depend on us?
What kind of life will we lead? Will we live as others live? Will we do the normal things? Settling down: how about that? Having children?
Who will remember us? Who will ask these questions like us? In the way we do? That’s all we can do, ask our questions, without answer. Ask, with the whole of our lives, with the whole of our non-lives.
Eternal questions. And the question of the question. Is the desire to ask itself a question? Is the desire to pray itself a prayer?
What’s wrong with us? What’s right with us? Are we more stupid than the others?
A blow’s been struck – a great blow. We’ve been struck …
Work in Progress 