It's not happening, W. wants to say. This is not happening. Because nothing is happening, he says. It finished long ago. We're dead, we're all dead, but this is no afterlife. Life – what do we know of that? Living – we've never lived. We've never begun to live, especially me, says W. But I have no sense of it, do I? I carry on regardless, whistling away as if nothing were happening, which of course it isn't, W. says.
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