Early in the morning, the Man has already relieved himself. Big are the heaps he dumps, and he's been busy with his pitchfork heaping up more. And how the urine splashes from him! Everywhere under his roof he can be heard. His articulated penis roaring to a standstill in the lay-by of his wife. Where at last he can relieve himself. Lightened of his product, he goes again to the lowly beings who make their own product under his supervision. The paper they have manufactured is an alien thing to them. Nor will it endure for long. The Direktor yells as he bangs and knocks and thrusts. Competitors are banging and knocking at the door, you have to anticipate their next moves, otherwise one or two more of the blessed poor will have to be sacked, or rather: liberated from their toil. Out he goes, the lordandmaster, into Nature, his back bowed with responsibilities, he-carries them on his back so he has his hands free. Of his wife, to whom he is a lord, by whom he is restored, he expects that she will be naked beneath the gown of her house when he specially lays back the twenty kilometres from the office to the house. The child will be out of the way. Climbing aboard the school bus the boy fell over his sports gear, what a prick!
The woman awakens quickly from the warm pressure bandage of peace where she has sought refuge. She keeps everything that the boy hastily flung at her as he was leaving. The rest will be dealt with by the housekeeper, who has seen a thing or two in this house and picked it up off the floor, too. When the boy was small, Mother sometimes took him along to the supermarket, where the manager would obligingly escort them personally past the gaggle of waiting housewives. The child would be sitting in the shopping trolley, which was not unlike the womb, and how he liked it there! The thing is, cars built for burning up the track generally have holes in all the wrong places, but still eighteen-year-olds love them more than they love their own families, they can't wait to get away from their parents and parental homes, theirs till death. And then, those magic magnetic security tags on new clothing! Oh, if only people had them too! Then they wouldn't promptly go scotching their prospects when they admire the prospects afforded elsewhere. Sex is going to be safeguarded against disease as women are safeguarded against the world, so they don't happen to look out of the window without due care and attention and go for a stroll through Life for a change and end up wanting to change their lives. But it's only clothing that is given this security protection in the stores. There's a shrill alarm signal if anyone who shouldn't takes the articles past the check-out, a wanderer out a-roving in the silent realm of the dead and of different brands of coffee. Better to go on foot and poorly clad to our sexual rendezvous. Better to live amidst waste of our own producing. At any rate, we will not have any other vehicle joining our little fleet. And so we keep life forever moving on, following where the road leads, following a friendly face in which we see the terrible reflection of our own.
Only last week the woman bought herself a trouser suit in a boutique. She smiles, as if she had something to hide. Though all she has is the silent realm of her body. Three new pullovers she's purchased she hides away in the cupboard, so that she offers no purchase to mistrust, no occasion for the suspicion that she's using her bloody groove as a ticket to a month of pleasures. The fact is that all she picks from the tree of her Man is that goodly fruit, money. The umbral leafage quilts the trees no longer. The Man checks the cheques she's written, and lo, thousands of trees tossing their topmost branches in the wind are laid low by the axe. The woman's housekeeping money is paid out to her and more! But he doesn't really believe that he actually has to pay for the comfortable rocking chair where he stretches out like a gratified boy, resting his rod. The woman is under the protection of his sir/surname, his lordandmaster holy-family name, under the shelter of his bank accounts, of which he gives her regular accounts, she has to know what kind of deal she's got, so that as his value appreciates she'll appreciate him the more, and likewise he knows of her garden, ever open, which is ideal for grunting and wallowing. After all, we have to make use of what belongs to us, don't we? Why else would we have it in the first place?
Barely is the woman on her own but she goes out for a walk, escorted by money, securities and depreciation, fine company. Like a shadow she glides through the multitude who make the paper, the sea of paper across which she sails her ship of life, the sea that would bury us all alive, given half a chance! For over there the masses of unemployed fools are lying in wait till someone finally follows their trail. And we? Do we want to fly on, ever on? Smart alecks that we are, first we'll have to climb higher up, to them that shift their arses shall be given.
The woman puts her multi-purpose hand before her eyes. Soon the Man and the child will have to be covered in food again, and what lies ahead tonight? The Man, compact, loaded, fresh from the factory. Waiting to unload. He's been fermenting in his bottle and he wants to uncork the fizz. Tonight, that's right, we almost forgot, how could we, tonight is the legally appointed time for the transaction. And the woman waits with her absorbent cloth to soak up everything the Man has produced during the day. And the rest vanish into the shadows to bury their hopes alive.
The landscape is pretty big, you have to admit. It is a loose fetter upon our fate, which lies shrouded in mist. Two lads out on mopeds promptly come a cropper in the snow. They tumble and go flying. The woman laughs out suddenly. Just for once she would like to go forward decisively. Today her husband showed what he could do in her body, as if there were two of him. Just wait a little. Till evening. When you enter into the circuitry. Now the Man has been drawn off to his office by a steel counterweight about the size of a telephone. Setting the pebbles flying, he has made it to the armchair behind his desk, from where he controls the fates of others, and to a skiing event on a screen. He loves sport as well. The boy got it from his father. People would simply lie abed patiently and undemanding, if it weren't that the TV screen is full of movement, as are their own feet and hearts at times as well. When the Man speeds along the country road the hairs are flattened on the skin, that's how fast he drives. When he calls for someone, he roars as someone wearing traditional costume would roar. Soon an appearance by the choir will be called for.
On Sunday, as an example of the convivial social life in an army, they go to church. In their coops they have books and memorials of their own enslavement. Nor are the doctor and chemist averse to paying a call on the Pope and the Mother of God. They envy no man his labour. The well-groomed custodians of health, fine fruits of further education, they go to the pub to sit awhile and be jolly. The doctor envies the chemist his shop, the profits of which we wouldn't say no to. The chemist gets people straight from the doctor, with all their weight and blood pressure problems. Lavishly he distributes his preparations amongst the unemployed of the area, so that they will be of good cheer again and will sit outside their houses contentedly twiddling their thumbs. Their wives have provided something to eat, and offer them tasty fare in other ways as well. They won't be deleted from the menu. So the men shall lack for nothing, for men there must be something, the foremen of nothing. Some leave, though a moment ago they seemed at home with us.