The chairs. The tables. All confused. We hear the words, and must speak them. We take them, and arrange them, but still, they will not be quiet.

Everything is wrong. This is not straight. This is too high. This is in my way. We must put them right.

You think what you do has meaning? You think you slay me, and I am dead? It is just dream and waking, over and over, one appearance after another, nothing real. What you do here means nothing. Why do we waste our breath on you?