122: jones

look, i’m out of things to say. i’ve said everything. i think my life contained a reservoir of words and i’ve used them up. useful words, i mean. this is it, this is the end of my vocabulary. once these words are spoken i will have no words left. all the meaningful ones have been said, and now all i have left is this. what is this anyway? are these the meaningless particles in the universe that no one bothers to measure? are these sound waves destined to die against iron walls, or fizzle out amid the cosmic background radiation of the universe? what is the meaning of the end? when i am finished talking, there will be no more words left for me to speak. i will be mute until the day i die. and none of you seem to be taking this in. i can feel it already, i feel my lack of words, i feel unable to say much more than this. my word reservoir is dwindling. linguistically i am dying, i am dying. my throat is closing up, i told you i am out of things to say, you didn’t believe me but it’s true, i’m out–[he keeps moving his mouth but words stop coming out. he stops. then he gesticulates: “see? see i told you so! fuck!”]