How do I get up in the morning?, W. always ponders. How do I go in to work? It's always baffled him, he says, the question of my motivation. – 'It's all finished for you. It's all over' – that's always been clear, W. says. But I go on regardless, don't I? I get up, go into work …
Something in me doesn't know I've died, W. says. Or something in me hasn't finished dying. It's groping forward, W. says. It's multiplying itself like some disgusting tumour. He can see it in my eyes, W. says, it's quite revolting. Cancer has a face, a form. Death is living a human life …
Lars Iyer's Blog 