Blogalone Dies

The ghost of Beckett hangs in the air. In the dim light I can barely make him out. It's getting dimmer. Soon it will be dark. Things are almost blind already. Never. Never turn the light. Leave the light alone, spare and cold, hanging from the ceiling, never to turn on, never to illuminate, never.

Furthering nothing. Signifying nothing. Meaning nothing.

I go on. I go on and on. I go on and on and on and on. I fell down in the mud and I could not get up. Just me and the man with the bloody hatchet. He won't hit anyone with it. Not now, not no one, not anyway. I saw Malone in the hospital and Malloy sucking on a pebble.

I must go visit mother. Mother before. Mother before she dies. Dying soon, she will die soon. Then I will see her, after she dies, before she dies. I get my things in order, there is nothing left to do.

I get up and do it again. I don't know why, but I do it. I do not care, I lost the will to care.

Me. Me again. Me again and again and again. Me till the end of time. Me till the end of the train. The near-empty train winding away in the night, the light winking out in the pitch. Me me some more. I looked up and everyone was asleep. I had bored them all to sleep with words that made no sense.

I stand up. Only to fall. To get up again. I go on. I can't go on. I go on anyway and I don't know why. Nothing to do. Nothing to do but get up again. Better than lying down.

I am waiting. Waiting for Molloy or Sapo or Lemuel. He never comes, he comes all the time. I never see him, he leaves me sitting.

The sun goes down in the window as I sit and look out at Paris. The light goes out in the room. I won't bother to turn on the light. I will sit in the dark as the sun sets. Set the sun. Set the sun down on the edge. Edge of the world, where the birds stop singing and the flowers close for the day.

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