The half-dead poet's sham existence
This is one version of the pseudo in sonic form. The sound of one hand clapping in a carpet-lined closet, plenty aware and not stopping despite of this. A straight nothing dirge, misplaced bravado and muck. Hence what this gets very right is the sense that a song need go nowhere to go straight to the sham heart of it. Yeah, there's an ending, and yes, there need not be, and sure, it will go on. In the meantime, something should be drooling, but it yelled itself too hoarse for that.
It rents the gray house next door to this: