Men of the End

These are the last days, says W. It's all finished. Everything's so shit, says W., but we're happy – why is that? Because we're puerile, he says. Because we're inane. It saves us, W. says, but it also condemns us.

We've been singled out for something, W. has decided. We've been marked. Look at us in our flowery shirts, says W. We're fat and blousy, and everyone else is slim and wearing black.

We're men of the end, W. says. Do we take nothing seriously? Not even ourselves. Least of all that, says W. Something has given up inside us. A whole world has come to the end. And it laughs at itself in our pot bellies and our flowery shirts.