The little house is on the hill.

It is a miracle that it has not caved in, although there is nothing its inhabitants would want more.

On the roof there are kids in the pouring rain, holding tight to the antenna, while lightning flashes around it.

The lightning refuses to strike.

The kids do not know what to do.

They do not have a gun to play Russian roulette.

They tried to play it without a gun.

Six glasses of Pepsi and one with bleach.

They can easily smell the bleach.

There is no point in playing it.

They do not want to commit suicide.

At least not that obviously.

They just want to have fun and risk something.

Not that there is much to risk.

Or fun.

The kids on the roof still laugh and hope, while the rain runs down their cheeks.

It would not make a difference if they where depressed and tears ran down their cheeks.

Maybe the rain is tears.

Maybe they are tears of laughter.

They do not have insight enough to see the irony.

They would try elevator action.

The house does not have an elevator.

Nothing moves up or down.

They sometimes sniff glue and hope to collapse.

Nobody does.

The glue is not strong enough.

At least, they kill a whole lot of braincells.

They do not need their brains, anyway.

What is there to think about?

They try to hold their breath until they choke to death.

None of them manages.

They wonder why they cannot do it.

It seems such a useless reflex.

Sometimes they sleep with each other.

Not for the fun or affection.

They just hope to contract a lethal veneral disease.

None of them is HIV positive.

No chance.

Nobody is positive in any way.

Although they claim to be.

Depression is out.

They read somewhere.

Once a girl got pregnant and had herself an abortion.

She died poking with a spoke in her body to get the worm out.

She did not have to have an abortion.

She could have raised the child.

They all could have raised the child.

What for?

They now worship her.

They do search affection.

They do not know where to find it.

They doubt it would make a difference.

They are sure it does not.

So they drown themselves in TV.

Exterminate whatever is left.

Sedate themselves.

It's not hard to have videos and soaps clean up.

They want nothing more than a revolution.

Apart from a revolver, that is.

They do not know, what they would fight for.

If they knew, Nike would jump on the train and destroy it.

They share the unbearable painless pain.

They are together on their quest for true pain.

Comforting pain.

For true pain goes away.

Even if it is just for a short time.

A fraction of a second would do.

Would do to ensure that there is more.

They are denied that fraction.

They could do things or go to places.

They have been there and done that.

So what is the use?

They are not even waiting.

For waiting requires somebody to wait for.

They do not move.

There are dead bishops in the cellar.

They have been there for ages.

In fact, the kids never saw them alive.

Now the maggots have gone, there is nothing left to do with them.

Not even the roaches care.

Why should the kids?

And they wait for the universe to implode.

Or somebody to knock on their door.

The universe does not implode.

And nobody knocks on their door.

The End