I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
Day… night… it seems to me sometimes the earth must have got stuck, one sunless day, in the heart of winter, in the grey of evening.
We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?
E: Nothing to be done.
V: I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. All my life I’ve tried to put it from me, saying Vladimir, be reasonable, you haven’t yet tried everything. And I resumed the struggle.
Work, family, third fatherland, cunt, finances, art and nature, heart and conscience, health, housing conditions, God and man, so many disasters.
E: What about hanging ourselves?
V: Hmmm. It’d give us an erection!
Sounds like an idea.