Hurry, I must get from point A to point B on the straightest line to death, we shall waste no time going directly toward death, no time to waste rushing toward death, what’s the point of all this dreaming and sleeping on the way to certain death? Get out of my way, you snake—don’t bother me, curved branch that looks exactly like a snake, why are you in my way? We’re busy, we cannot lose a minute on the way to death. Time is running out when everything leads to death, stay awake all the way as lines and shapes collapse into death, the black stink bug walks butt in the air on the trail to death, he’s walking slow like he’s old and about to get stepped on and he’ll stink in death, the doves coo on the telephone poles of death and who is calling as the crow is laughing, which way is the best and fastest, our most direct route to certain death?