Things dry up. All of your striving is powerless to yield another drop.
So you sit back, and cast about for an alternative source. There is nothing you can find that can touch you. In your armchair, you watch the universe recede until its rim is a razor-thin line on the horizon.
Things explode. All of your striving is powerless to hold together this troubled mass that encompasses.
So you learn to keep out of the blast radius, and every step you take is in reference to what you know is about to happen, yet cannot be predicted. In your armchair, you watch the universe tremble and rage in the space allotted it.
Aside from the drying up and exploding, life goes on like it does. How could it do otherwise? In your armchair, you periodically decide.
There is no eternal lament. There is no cosmic warning label. There is no dentist, no taxidermist, no lawyer, no stockbroker. After the well is spent, and after it shoots its emptiness skyward in a rush of heat and fire and anguish, there is a brief period of mourning and moaning. Eventually, you pick yourself up and go do something else.
Somehow, through it all, over and over, the armchair survives. I am grateful, but I do not understand. I do not understand. I do not understand.