The undressing-gown flaps about the woman. She's dead tired. The alcohol heat inside her has subsided. What's the point of all this noise the Direktor's making now? Why has this immodestly-clad woman returned to Nature's cave of games? Dogs don't go around off the leash! She coughs when the Man smites her on the shoulders and the conscience. His worries carry the day and he crushes his wife to his heart, wraps himself about her, we won't be needing this dressing-gown any more. If only that young fellow would be off. Who makes possible a comparison of the body in its present state and its original condition as approved by the planning authorities. Patience. In good time we'll all have the pleasure of casting off our mis-shapen outer self.
The original version of this paper mill manager looked better, too, than we in our cruel inhumanity can now imagine. This woman loves. And is not loved. In this she is not unique. Fate is as inevitable as this finger I'm pointing at you now. The woman is less than nothing at all now. The young man laughs at the gratitude of the Direktor, who's had his doggie returned to him. The disrespectful youngster reads the expression of the man who considers himself his rival. But he wouldn't mind a paper mill. Instead of having to toil over law and jurisprudence. He cannot feel the equal of the people who slouch to the factory, bliss in their eyes, for they are to see the one who has given work to one and all. And what is the student thinking of? Who he's playing tennis with tomorrow.
The Herr Direktor talks and talks, the flames of speech flicker, the tongues of fire lick, he's warming up. There the womenfolk sit, simmering, wearing naughty lingerie and provoking their menfolk so that their motors rev high and they want to burn up the highway. It is not on them but on the poor that the world heaps its wrath. The poor go walking along the banks with their children, where chemicals corrode the waters. The main thing is to have a job at all. And to come home from work with a suitable industrial disease.
Like a heavy unhooked door, Gerti sinks back into her husband's hinges. The question is, will she hold when the tempests of time bring storms and snows? She wants the young man to take another swig of her, preferably tomorrow. Right now, though, another man, a regular, is going to be messing with her fuses till the lights go out. The Direktor knows that this woman shall rest in that place only which has been ordained her lawful wedded grave. So that he can appreciate her best sides (left and right). This creature is his, belongs to him. To serve his regular needs, like a jar to pee in. Anything imagination can dream up can indeed be done with a living, lively member that distends and then shrinks again, the only question is: whose? Love opens the woman's eyes. Like knocking at the natural landscape, you rap with your rod and wait to see if water's flowing from the rock. The work goes quickly, but are the workers happy? No.
And the boy blubs, boo hoo, because he can't get to sleep. Not if mummy doesn't tell him how to wipe his feet clean of life. Mummy mummy, comes his whine from inside, and a malicious little head appears, the fruit of her womb complete with worm. It would be better if the child were asleep now so that he wouldn't have to witness anything. His dough has been kneaded long enough, now he can rise, arise and go. And early in the morning the weary people arise and go, free of the burden of beauty. They wander like deer. Now the child is there. Tomorrow morning it will be smeared as full of jam as Mother is with Father's slime. And the Holy Ghost's. Their son dashes in. Having missed his mum. Father shuts the door in the student's face, he wants to spread his wife's thighs at his leisure and take a look if anyone's been grazing in his meadow, where his sacred cow's at pasture. Mother crosses no-man's-land to her child. Welcome! The Direktor wants his wife to be a part of him as summer is a part of the year. All that's needed is for day to waken too. The child has a title to proper care. Who doesn't long hourly for that sneak-thief. Love? And I bet you have a cuddly lamb too. Now who's been missing whom? This mountain is here for only one reason: to put an end to this vale of tears, so that production and viewing will peak again. The snow is pale. The Man sets great store by good works, works where paper is made for the well-being of us all. Let me write it down, quite unambiguously: paper could cut me open as a paper knife slits paper. I'd like to meet the person who could make a new woman of me out of the things I say.
But what more do we want than to get our wages in the pocket of our failure. That is: no doubt we do want to become something, no doubt we do want to be a little more, at least on paper. And we want our feelings too, as we sit there at home, through our own fault, through our own most grievous fault, with none to keep us company but the phone.
He's heartless, this man. Like fire he consumes the house. He drags his wife around. The child starts to shout. Outside, a solitary exhaust struggles to attract the attention of sleepers who, like animals, register the tempest as it rages but don't dare say anything. Not even during the daytime can they join in the muscular games of the beautiful, wealthy flesh. Their pleasures are burdened with oppressions, society needs the poor, q.e.d. The young man drives off. And no sooner has he quit the shunting cunting yard where they linked their couplings than the woman pounds on the door which her longing long since smashed through the wall with the axe of desire. Eyeless, she stares into nowhere, anywhere, wherever she might see him again. But men are such creatures of violence, regardless they set fire to their houses where their families lie asleep, ignorant of what the figures in the bank statements mean. Let's get undressed and look at these other figures instead, deceive someone with our genitals. Truly, men cover all the highways and byways with themselves. But you don't care, not you, that a human being is suffering wrongings and longings before your very eyeways.
Longing is a stick that this woman has fetched herself, fetch! She needs the excitement. For her house is in order and delivered too. So she quests abroad. And then she thinks continually of what she has found. And tips it like a packet soup into her turbulent bubbling boiling waters and stirs it round and stirs a stranger's heart. After all, the Catholic Congress needs its far-off Pope as well. Who journeys to join us, though when he is here in our fatherland, lo! he's suddenly just another human being like you and me, don't I know him from somewhere. For him, everyone comes last, a loser, last past the post. Not so with love. Men at least can get somewhere, they can thumb a lift, but women are always wanting a lift from their feelings, a high, and being let down. The whole human race is in a ferment of wishes, forever wondering what to buy.