He stumbles and falls. He lies down and cannot get up. He just doesn't understand why. He is not yet forty. And, it seems, everything is in place. Arms, legs, head. Just a little extra weight. But no. Life is already ending. And everything he once wanted becomes impossible over time. Did not cope. Did not have time. I couldn't. He is the most common loser. He is not even able to understand whether it is worth living at all. Only somewhere deep inside one last spark burns. Worrying. Lets me sleep. Pushes you to stand up and dust yourself off. Step over fear and powerlessness. Go. Resist. Angry. Look inside yourself. Be horrified. But still don’t stop. So that later, at the very end of the dead end, you feel that everything is just beginning.