And so you sit there amidst the detritus of your rantings and ravings, your haystack needles, your singing perverted bluster. You spend your time opening shutters. Your pimples leak self-important pus. Your poor technique is no match for the mighty electric fists of death. Go ahead, care.
Plight. Consideration. Grief. Bemusement. Surrender. Defiance. Toilet seat covers. Blankets. Lamps. Full bookcases, teeming with tomes. Pages and pages of haughty fluff, destined merely to distract. Skin creams and flattering garments. The furniture of inexorable failure. A couple of decent rooms and a bath. Decay.
And you bleed your eventual demise all over the joint, more of it coming every day. Everyone is sick of everyone else’s. And we keep at it, like rats make shit. Everyone wants to be the voice in the wilderness.
And what if there were another way? What if the jukebox took cake instead of bread? What if they sold guillotines from behind the bar? Where then the toothless, blithering epitaphs? Where then the literal-minded, faceless sinister?
There is nothing that can be said. No message of hope except that which you carry with you. No words of peace save those you tattoo on an antelope. Let it go and watch that motherfucker run.