Ed was at the end of his rope, an expression he detested. "There is no

rope!" he would scream at the laughing walls. "There is only the end.

No hope, no rope. Ending is better than mending. Doors of perception,

windows of opportunity -- these are illusions, like the killing floor."

Ed spoke in a squeaky whiny voice with perhaps a slight tinge of glee,

but this was only because he couldn't be bothered to try to develop a

manner of speaking that truly reflected his mood. "This is a vaccuum.

There is no air in this room. Despair is no fun anymore. Nihilism

knocked three times on the ceiling, but the rosy fingers of dawn always

inserted themselves in the nose of unfulfilled promises. Angels sang

Heysanna Hosanna, paralyzed prima-donnas danced in the streets all day,

but when darkness came, everybody went home. I was ready - everyone

else was asleep. And while it may have been a relief to see that I was

right all along, here I am still: alone and trapped, awaiting the

endless end. And I can turn it all around, and laugh at it and laugh at

myself; I can laugh louder than the walls, the halls the waterfalls,

louder than Charles de Gaul or Fulton Mall, but I don't know what I'm

laughing at, I don't know just what I think is so goddamn funny. I

don't know why I don't just shut up and give up and lay down and die.

What do I have to complain about anyway," Ed asked his Picasso, "I'm a

millionaire!" This wasn't exactly true. Ed's Picasso was an obvious

forgery, his three Rothkos had just been singled out in an article in

ARTFORUM entitled "The three most insignificant paintings of Mark

Rothko," and his Barbara Kruegers had been irreparably damaged by Rein

Sanction and a few other bands from Gainesville that refused to

acknowledge the value of art.



"Come to think of it," Ed mused to the laminated roadkill coffee table

that he had purchased when times had seemed slightly less bleak, "Come

to think of it, not onl does art have no intrinsic value, but my

collection has no extrinsic value either. I know I'm not a millionaire,

but that's no reason to complain. There is no reason to complain.

There is no reason to do anything. I don't believe in reason, objective

reality, or collective farming. I don't believe in public speaking,

which is another reason why I'm here alone. I don't believe in life or

death, I would kill myself, but I don't believe in suicide." Ed put on

a red shirt and took a quick walk around the block while whistling

softly to himself. He reentered his apartment screaming, "There is no

life on this planet! Jehovah-One replaced all life with machinery five

centuries ago. the so-called industrial revolution was just another

hoax and we all fell for it, 'cause we were all programmed to. Even I

fell for it, I believe in the steam engine, even though I don't believe

in anything. Logical inconsistency is the Mr. bubble I bathe in each

and every evening, except for yesterday evening, when I rollerbladed

over to the Masonic temple to play pinochle with Pope John Paul the

First. I really had no choice in the matter." "Ed certainly could go

on and on, and he did, and he would, and he will, until you or I or

somebody does something about it." Senator Sterno of Arkansas announced

over closed circuit television. "And as long as he continues to

pontificate pointlessly, I will do nothing." Ed walked away from the

program feeling fortified and stapled. His brain was buzzing, the was

it always did just after Jeopardy. He loaded up the microbus with

Atlases and poseidons and headed for Pope county.



"I've had it." He sang, "I've had it with puns, alliteration, russian

literature, Italian neorealism, meaningless cross references and laundry

lists of nonsense. I shall dive without a license, without clothing,

without direction and if I make it to Louisiana, fine, and if I'm

running late, if I'm running a numbers game, it doesn't matter, I shall

keep on running. Yes, this is the answer. This is the ending, I shall

keep on running, because a body in motion tends to stay emotional, and

it's better to feel. Pain is better than emptiness, emptiness is better

than nothing, and nothing is better than this