To drown you must become an addict.

Perhaps God says, "surround yourself in vice for shit's sake. it's for the sake of hearing." I mean, contrariness perhaps, contrariness aside for its vain rebelliousness, it is the present dispensation, is it not? Drown in sound. Become a bug, as Kafka says, because looming deep inside your soul is the mind of the same 15-year old attention-whoring slut who you used to look at with such vexed disdain because you could not understand how she got into such a fucked up position. She is a public beast, we are private. "I've got out at last," she says as she tramples over you to get to the door.

But when you take a knife to your own arm, you might feel it. I mean, you would have to "feel" it one way of the other- it's a multi-sensory experience. At least if you can't feel it, you can see it. Perhaps you can even smell it. But that's not really what she's interested in, is it? "For socialism is not merely the labour question," Dostoyevsky writes, "it is before all things the atheistic question."

We've got to get him to respond- come down out of the clouds, illicit a response, as it were. It's already too loud, but we must make it louder- unavoidable. The whole creation groans, you see, she's screaming "fuck," how could you not know that this is what she is saying? Yet her skin only gets thicker, but to thin it out it must get thicker.

So the white noise of man's disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree, our own creation, swells perpetually, and indeed it must, and indeed it should, as we will continue to cut ourselves deeper and deeper until we hear a voice from the heavens.

"Godot will not come today, will he?"

"No sir, not today, but perhaps tomorrow."

"Nothing to be done, then, nothing to be done."