Very well then, so I shall go mad. I will hold my breath until my toes turn blue. I will talk to ghosts and falling leaves and laugh when it rains. Again. I will peek behind time - a twitch of the net curtain that you’re not supposed to go behind. Then I will break into Peace and dig up a grave or two to ask the past what it thought about not being alive anymore, and if it came as a terribly big surprise. YOU COULD SEE IT COMING YOU STUPID FUCKING CORPSE. Couldn’t you? COULDN’T YOU? WHY DIDN’T YOU… Forget that. That’s a metaphor. I wouldn’t ever bother a dead person. How would you feel if your ancestors invited themselves to dinner and told you that you’re a big disappointment? Know your places and get there or stay there. Don’t intrude. I will run and run and run from this field of death until I am out of breath. I will talk myself into a stupor to others, stupid stupidity, because I’m making sense to myself. Yup, to be that mad old man on the bench again, somewhere between a granddad and a scary drunk. Tramps are either wise or stupid. Like people. Tramps are just like people. Tramps must be people too. Astounding. So if a tramp is a person and people like tramps can be just as insightful as a falling leaf, then does everything really make sense? Nonsense! Where art thou? Why does everything seem too sensible? With Out You. Why does everything seem so ancient? Why do I have no fear? Of any of it. I’m not afraid of anything here because I know that none of it matters. I’m staring at a blank wall and wondering why it doesn’t frighten me. Would it frighten you? I only ask because I get so trapped in your stupidly sensible words. You have this wonderful way of saying everything so simply, without the clumsiness of music, meaning or magic. Cage, clenched fist - whatever. You have building-brick logic. You keep a study without mouseholes. You tidy everything up and throw away the things that you don’t need until everything is so orderly in its sterility and interchangeable uniformity of authorised singularity. Singularity. That’s another name for a black hole you know. This big incredible thing - this hungry mouth sucking up anything and everything, gravity and light itself. And there’s not even only one. There’s a universe of them. An infinite amount. The hungry underside has many mouths, and Hell has been bought by a larger company and mass produced at half the cost. Hommo. Odgeyness. Some big space-faring dick-shaped vacuum cleaner poked itself into this corner of the cosmos and switched itself into reverse to piss away all the real meaning and real sense and real logic a long time ago leaving just dead sodden skin. All hail the second cumming of The Great Dick Shaped Vacuum Cleaner. I’ll give you £50 for your faith. First there was paradise, then came the fall. Then there was the war. Now there is nothing. Dead skin and silent chaos and rocks and damp carcasses litter little battlefields still years afterwards. Victory to the rain. Not even the wind. So this is Peace. This silence. This place where the purple ribboned empire rots unheard like meat plucked clean from where it lived like happy flesh in plasma, left in a fridge. Pointless. Stop this. End. Plastic packaged dreams have no value because they never degrade.