Do we become the madness we see around us?
Are we merely acting as we saw the actors perform?
Does Beckett’s England make England Becketts?
The whole world’s a stage of paths trodden worn
We wore our striped pyjamas
As we limped around with a ladder
I can no longer tell if I am he
Or he is me, is making me feel sadder
Have you seen my eyes, I’ve never shown
It seems true that you don’t complain
Never wondered to take off the goggles
Slept in and never thought to explain
A blown whistle brings forth a biscuit
And the lid’s stuck back on the bins
No more nature now we’re losing our bloom
Stuck here with each other, for ever
– and for all our sins
Most men are so thoroughly subjective that nothing really interests them but themselves.
Arthur Schopenhauer
1994ever 
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