Blame it on the Beckett.

Here in the vitality of the body that sleeps lies the potential for spoil, the decay that hangs in every cell, smile, eye, and in the breath. Kissing tongues. Debris.  Commuting and home appliances. Void. Tired, we pace the streets blank eyed and broken about our daily tasks ghost faces burying the past. Empty churches. Nothing. A dream of rivers and glass. Silence. Mass. Distractions. Food and movies. Silence. The play of light. Burning books. Pets. Musicals.  Radio plays, VK Blue. Art. Here, a rotting twitching stump which raw and scalpel cut, twitching red flesh flapped open slippery cold and seeping the teeth of forceps anaesthetic dry numb boredom against this; the absolute. Neurofen and a mocha. This: the inevitability of an end. Sham of an end. Final. Incomprehensible.