The show must go on

Do you know life? 
Every-where that we've gone, every-thing that we've tried, have forced us to this point: a gleaming point that cuts. 
I havn't got much left in my pocket. I havn't got much to give, anymore. So do you mind, if I keep some for myself?

I can't drink up all your tears and give you light every night. 
I can't see that beautiful picture myself. Though we've drawn it once. Out on a paper. Framed. Now I can't find myself in it. I can't see you in it. I can't see it anymore. I think -
It's a picture you've got to believe in first, for it to be revealed. A place you've got to live in first, before it becomes real. 
Or, maybe, I've just lost my faith. Or, maybe it's just a picture too wonderful; I'm too sad to be there.

No more I love you? 
The hurtings have got to stop - somehow, somewhere, sometime. For how can I not love you? Perhaps: I don't know how. 
Just a little boy, I am, plugging my fingers in the dyke. A dyke cracking apart. A dyke full of holes. My fingers are stuck in them.
My throat's hoarse from shouting. Yet no one's listening. No one cares. I'm feeling helpless. It is hopeless. I am tired. 
Sorry. 
I've got to let go.
Let the flood come.

Do you know life? Actors and actresses looking for an ending. 
We didn't choose to come here, did we? But we've brought her along. So now, we've got to go on acting. And the show must go on. Pretence. Pretence. The smiles that veil us. You've never heard my beating heart. I've never lived your life. We know too much, but we've understood nothing. I'm sorry: to you, to her, to myself. That, I've nothing much in my pocket left to give.