Manna

The chicken won't stop, we won't stop. It's disgusting. Disgusting, but time moves us on. On, on, and what's it got to do with us? Death is everywhere. Death is falling from the heavens like manna.

And who are we, wandering in the desert, two members of a lost tribe? The desert is our lives – is that it? The wasteland of our lives. And manna? The axe blade that would fall down to us from on high. The blazing axe to cauterise all wounds …

It's not enough to die. All trace of us would have to disappear. The wound of our lives. The scars …