What is to be done?

There is an improper thing to do (and this has already been attempted). You can cut off twenty centimetres of hair every six months, and store it in old jars of honey, along with peeled skin and nails. If the calculations are correct, and your hair is not too thin, you should have eighteen jars filled to the brim after six years. If you happen to die before the project’s completion, you can ask a trusted friend to mix in your cremated ashes – perhaps you can pay them for the trouble. The whole thing is then mailed to The Metropolitan Museum of Art where it is displayed as part of their permanent collection. Tickets cost thirty dollars if you are an adult and seventeen if you are a student.

***

One makes love in the night and regrets it the next morning. This is considered a courtesy. Young Werther is certainly dead (this he made sure of) and his age has passed. Of course, it never quite existed (and this is the proper thing to say). The author made all of it up. A figment of his imagination – a drunk attempt at a joke.

***

We come to the cosmic question rather quickly, quicker than anyone would have really wished for, but “you cannot control this” – a proverb from the circus (and dust in the hair). There are a couple of miniscule things we must take care of before we can begin the real task: a cleansing of the stomach before the spoiled milk.

***

It is said that we have simple manners. Once we were hungry – we slaughtered a gazelle – we plucked an apple. This is arithmetics on the bone. Now we are hungry again; where is the apple? Have you burnt the meat?

***

The tribunal always speaks of the people, “this is the tribunal of the people” – but where are the people? My friend never robbed anyone, he asked for a wallet. The knife is not important (that was simply a minor inconvenience). Such things happen, let’s not be moronic.

***

Yes, the whole thing is coming down. I forgot to buy bread when I was in the supermarket this morning. What else? Someone has just emptied a magazine into the belly of a dog.

***

Whatever you do, you will regret it. If you live to be a hundred, it will still not be enough. If you die at fifty-five, there will be no reward either.

***

They gave a doctor the Nobel Prize for his invention “the last joke” – it is brilliant and undeniably constitutes a crime against humanity – it goes like a truck and sounds like a vulture: “I would sell my baby for a blowjob”.

***

We went to the moon, so what? Tom measured the circumference of his torso with a shoelace. Eighty-two centimetres.

***

At one point or another, you will find eleven cents in your pocket; it will be more than ten and it will be delightful.

***

“Not a word – not a syllable!”: this has been scribbled on the wall. Enough now. Enough!

***

There are cathedrals to be raised. The invention of a language with no nouns. The rediscovery of Shakespearean sentiments. The composition of a true musical phrase. The depiction of totality without a moment of understanding. Tickets cost thirty dollars if you are an adult and seventeen if you are a student.

***

What is to be done? Ha!