As if the monster stirs in its sleep and begins to slough off the gaudy rubbish you have piled on top of it, every gesture of thought undoes itself, every act invites its equal and opposite counteract in this solitude. You can't begin to say who or what is experiencing this immemorial check-mate. Petrified and unblessed, every sin perpetuates itself and you are hammered to its rock. You have never known, never seen a thing beyond the pallid room where your voice dies away without echo. A mistaken instance with no possibility of starting over. Look at what you never want to see, look at your never wanting to see, your intent misgivings, the colours that you bear, the baton dropped at your feet, and mechanically picked up again. The marksman singing to miss his sky. This day, this moment, at the bottom of every single moment in a fool's dusty death, uttering foolish certainties from a fool's beak, from interchangeable heads, like the clown or the puppet that you are, now and forever.