A Game of Guess Who? with Samuel Beckett

 

Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time?

Are they a girl or a boy?

Is their face bovine? Disfigured? Imprinted by the creases of a lifetime’s humiliation? Their mouth. Is it an organ of emission without intellect?

And their eyes? Are their eyes filled with tears? Or do they look on. Unblinking. Precipitated. Voids coarsened by life on this bitch of an Earth?

Am I to judge this individual on countenance alone? What can be learnt from their knees? From their arms? Their hands? The seat of communication: the anus?

Are their nights not filled with thoughts of the dirt? Of the mud? Of the decay and the filth and the tedious echoes of wasted idle discourse?

I can’t go on. I go on: Do they have brown hair?

Enough. Sudden enough. I cannot bring myself to identify the face on your card. It would be futile to do so. Their tiny features arouse emetic sensations within me. I have flipped every character on my board. I make my guess out of nothing more than fatigue and disgust with the entire futile endeavour. My guess is nobody. No one. Leave it at that. Now let us play Pictionary.