I'm like some joke, W. says. A joke that's been told too many times and amuses no one. A joke of which everyone is sick. Sick and tired. They don't want to hear it again, but there it is, someone or other has to tell it again. But no one gets it anymore. No one finds it funny.
It's rather sad, that's how it strikes them. Pitiful. And it's sick, in a way. It's a joke upon them, in a way. A joke on everyone, on everything, W. says.
No wonder they don't laugh. No wonder they grimace, teeth bared. He's not going to protect me when they turn, W. says. And they are turning, can't I see it? They're going to turn on me, he says. They're going to tear me apart.
Lars Iyer's Blog 