Well, thinking about it... nah, why bother?
Let's just turn the telly on and wait for it to go away. Everything does, in the end, go away. Nothing lasts forever, as far as we know, not even those interminable phone calls from relatives that happen at the most inconvenient times and go into minute detail about everything you couldn't really give a shit about, until it feels like she's stuffing cotton wool into your ear with a road drill, so much inconsequential fluff driven into your head by a voice that could easily be used by western intelligence agencies as a less humane form of interrogation than water-boarding the next time they want to invent a terrorist threat.
It seems odd – at times – that the world is contracted thus, so full of petty irritations and minor annoyances, that – if you were ever desperate enough to perform the shabby intellectual compromises that such a move necessarily entails – you could almost believe there are such things as gods, and the one we seem lumbered with is some kind of trickster one who thinks practical jokes and pettifogging annoyances are the height of humour and sophistication.
Still, though, even relatives – sooner or later – shut up and go away, much like all those gods did... eventually.
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