To What Will Love Not

We Wait. We Are Bored. (he Throws Up His Hand.) No, Don't Protest, We Are Bored To Death, There's No Denying It. Good. A Diversion Comes Along And What Do We Do? We Let It Go To Waste. Come, Let's Get To Work! (he Advances Towards The Heap, Stops In His Stride.) In An Instant All Will Vanish And We'll Be Alone More, In The Midst Of Nothingness!

So All Things Limp Together For The Only Possible.

Every Word Is Like An Unnecessary Stain On Silence And Nothingness.

To Find A Form That Accommodates The Shape Of The Mess, That Is The Task Of The Artist Now.

To Every Man His Little Cross. Till He Dies. And Is Forgotten.