Beans on Toast

I see the old man in the easy chair, two o'clock in the morning, listlessly, mechanically consuming a plate of beans on toast. One thinks there must be something more to the man, but in fact there is not. There is only the man and the chair and beans and the toast, and outside the window the violent though superfluous cannonade of thunder and lightening. A quiet little song drips from the unsearchable depths of the ceiling just over his head and gathers like cold sweat on his brow. 

If that's all there is,
if that's all there is, 
If that's all there is, my friend, 
then let's start dancing. 
Let's bring out the booze
and have a ball … 
If that's all ….

I can tell you a story of passions and grand pursuits; of desperate love and throbbing heartache; of struggle and victory and joy and grief--but none of these things would have anything to do with the man and the chair and the beans and the toast. For this is, he is, all that there is.