Pete: it's over, all over. my life is over.
I say goodnight and go upstairs. He's still there, sitting on the empty-turned-round bath tub, in the garden, near the bonfire, with Gary. it's guy fawkesday. four hours ago it sounded like war. now it's all quiet. they're out of sauce.
Pete: maybe michael still have some vodka, stached in his room. go and look for it gary.
Gary: that's not nice.
Pete: we're not nice, we're artists.
Gary is convinced. he goes upstairs. but searches in vain.
Pete: it's meaningless, Art, it's nothing, it's completely meaningless. It's just nothing. it doesn't exist. it's nothing.
He says, a bucket of shit has more meaning than Art.
we know a thing or two about buckets of shit.
Gary: I don't agree.
Pete sympathises: of course, it's terrible. because this means my life is meaningless.
it's guy fawkes night, the sky misty with smoke, and explosions are dying out.
i go upstairs to write this bit.