Are we even alive?, says W. Is this even happening? Are we really talking – right now? Because all he can hear is a great roaring, W. says. He's falling, W. says, as through the clouds of Jupiter.
When will he ever hit anything real? When will he strike his head upon the hard shore of the real? Because that's what he wants, even if it dashes his head to pieces. That's all he wants, and especially if it dashes his head to pieces …
Only death is real, W. says, and it's time to die, it really is. But death isn't coming any closer. If anything, he's too healthy, and so am I. We need to be struck down, W. says. Eradicated, along with everyone who has known us. Our memory should be wiped from the earth …
Sometimes W. finds the coming disaster a comforting thought. It will be a relief, a blessed relief, the parched earth, the boiling sky. Because won't it entail the absence of us? Won't it mean, at the very least, our complete destruction?
Only the disaster is real, W. says. There is no future. And isn't that a relief: that there will be no future? And meanwhile, his long fall. Meanwhile our long fall through the clouds …
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