By far the easiest thing would be for me to tell you what I dream each night: it's usually weird, there's usually a little meaning, and with the addition of a couple of awful puns that you can take the moral high ground on it'd be funny. On the occasions when it was none of those, it'd be about sex, and you might tut, but you'd read it nonetheless, pervert. Stretch, yawn, crack, I'm thinking too much. Stop again to think. Perhaps as well as easiest, it'd be for the best. There is the fear, though, but though but though but, that I'd ...y'know, what's the point? What's the point of anything? Anything you do just gets dirty again. You tidy, it gets dirty, you order things, the second you use them they become unordered, you read a book, you finish, it's over, passed, you watch a film, it's never as good again, you fall in love, you have your moment, however long that may last, then something happens and you settle down into staid security or it's over. Everything ends, moves on and all you're left with are memories. Then you get old, lose all the physical and mental abilities that you were so proud of in your youth, get, contract, earn, Alzheimer's, lose your memories, start shitting yourself (unintentionally) again, and you die. Great. Sufuckingperb plan, Dan. Oh you get to feel some emotions on the way. Great. That makes it all worthwhile. Everything cancels out: you love, you hate, you are happy, you're sad, you cry, you laugh, you ...I dunno, I can't think of any other emotions right now, but trust me, they all cancel each other out (or I'm gonna end up looking foolish, which is cancelled out by the times I look wise beyond my years). Everything boils down to a big fat pulsating zero. No positives, no negatives. Just a huge big lump of ambivalence. Some say it's cyclical; it's not, it's linear, with the rocking needle always settling firmly in the middle, average, obscurity, repetition, boredom, apathy, zero, nothingness, middle. The sum of all human achievement, whether collectively or individually is nothing. That's all we are: we're planted, we live, we die. Life and death cancel each other out. There's nothing after that. Even if there is, what's the point? When all is said and done, especially when it's done, cos nothing you say can change a damn thing about anything, when everything is done all that you get is a 0. Nothing else. There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't just sit. Any pain will numb with time, you'll fall asleep, but you'll wake up again, you'll end up shitting and pissing yourself but you'll get used to the smell, and will settle down to do nothing once all the food and liquid passes through your system. The hunger that this brings passes after time - perhaps death will come first if you're not drinking any water. Answer? Lie outside, mouth open. If it rains, it rains. You may live, you may die. Either way it doesn't matter. What happens happens. You may think you're down or up, but all you are is zero, nothing. Say fuck as much as you like, it matters not. Say anything and everything blurs. Blurring is the limit of human achievement, averaging everything to nothingness. Nothing is good, nothing is bad, it's all just nothing.