Every day the same humiliation, says W. Every day it's the same over again. How can he can stand it? How can anyone? Our credit's used up. The bailiffs are here, hammering down the door. But it's only W. who can hear them. It's only W. who knows, really knows, what is to come.
There is no future, W. says, and isn't that a relief? Great floods will swallow up the land. The sky will burn; the sun will swell in the sky. We're nearly there, at the end. It's nearly time …
There will be the great migration north; the great migration south. New fortresses will spring up in the dust. The scorched earth will spread everywhere; nothing will grow, nothing will live.
There will be wars between nations, and when there are no more nations, a war of all against all. The rich will enclose themselves behind high walls, and the poor will tear those walls down. And they'll die together, bones in the sand, corpses staring with their eyes shot out, corpses listening with bleeding ears …
But it will be a relief, a desperate relief. A great silence will descend. And we will have been forgotten, utterly forgotten.
Lars Iyer's Blog 