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.

Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

I love order. It's my dream. A world where all would be silent and still, and each thing in its last place, under the last dust.

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!

We always find something, eh Didi, to let us think we exist?