The end has come, we know that. The end has come, the credits have rolled, and now it's the advert break, and that's our reality, or what passes for reality. So now what? What are we going to do about it?
Looking out to sea, W. speaks of his overwhelming sense of shame. We do nothing, he says. We're parasites. And little later, in the beer garden, How did it get to this? At what point did we lose our souls?
Sometimes W. supposes we should live two lives, one turned to the world and to the horror of the world, and the other turned towards our friends. Two lives! One public, a life of immeasurable despair, and the other private, joyful, and withdrawn from the world.
But W. can only see this as a terrible betrayal. When the revolution comes, he says, there'll be no more friends. Or, rather, the meaning of friendship will change, how he's not entirely sure. Either way, he won't be sitting with me in a beer garden, W. says. We won't be sharing the water-taxi home.
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