The time is past when I can say anything reasonable or furnish the outer rooms of my abandoned home. I have done my best. I have looked in various directions. I have raised my head above the table, the ceiling and the roof. I am on my way, with the night in pursuit. It hastens towards me, whispering words of encouragement. Yet the table remains obstinately still and silent, despite the lamentations and obscenities rising from the burning villages, despite the unsettling voyage to new lands. So I allow the table to accompany me. And the table endures me. It joins me as a fellow traveller. I take my rest beside it. I imagine that I am resting. I look fondly at all my stuff. I have eaten more than enough. I would call for more alcohol if there were anyone around, but the darkness at the edges of the table hides no one. We are alone and shall find no solace in the shadow of these gloomy rocks.