We should shoot ourselves, W. says. Someone ought to. He'll shoot me, and I'll shoot him, in some kind of Mexican standoff. We would lie there in the sun, bullets in our heads, the flies buzzing around us, and there would be a great rejoicing. But that's just it, isn't it: there would be no such rejoicing. No one would see, no one would know what had been delivered from the world.
How is it that we've escaped detection?, W. wonders. How is it we've got away with what we have? It would restore faith in the world if we'd be hunted down and shot. At last moment, the gun held to our temples we would laugh in joy because we knew justice had been done. It would all make sense! The world would be restored!
That we're still alive, W. says, is a sign of the closeness of the end.
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