And myself as a lump of flesh, not knowing particularly why i was brought into the world, sees the lack of sense, the bare abject state of everything.
In other words a life without meaning. Can't play out on my own wall those rigid old stories anymore. Stories are just a means to amuse oneself. Like talking to yourself in a corner.
'Member Shakespeare said all the world is a stage? Well what i wonder is who are the audience and are they deriving satisfaction from such an empty and meaningless production? And moping mumbling actors like me, under-acting, making futile gestures, asking myself unanswerable questions.
The audience must've left long ago. More likely there never was an audience.