-Say what?
-I’m losing my mind.
-What’s this?
The
sun went down.
-The sun goes…
-Does this matter?
-No, it doesn’t. But neither does
anything else—the dead trees, the war, the disease…
-I remember…
-But does it matter?
-No, not really, I don’t think. It’s
weird though this—
-Damn maggots!
-...this time, something’s terribly
wrong and missing…
-Is it your wife?
-Oh yes, it is! How could I have
forgotten...I remember the night…
-The night, yes.
-Much like this one, yes.
-When the cannons shot…
-Yes, and the sky burned…
-Like an angry sunrise—
-No, like sunset.
-Ah yes, and then…
-Ha! The limbs and the blood...
-Like the gutting of sheep,
-And the screams of dying lambs.
-My wife, though—how her eyes rolled
back and I held her—
-There was nothing you could do.
-But the way she whispered…
“Do
not speak my name again.”
-
-
The
soup was cold and bland, much like the room. The wind howled, and the windows
creaked.
-See that?
-What is it?
-A mouse.
-So?
-And that, over there!?
-What?
-A spider...so large, and brooding.
-Yes?
-What life is this then?
-A miserable one, yes, but the one
we must have.
-Poor youth, poor beasts—
-Please, do not pity them.
The mouse ran away.
-You scared it off.
-Me and my wrinkly, old hands.
-No. You and your despicable, dying
soul.
-I don’t think we do…
-Have souls?
-Yes.
-But we must.
-Why is that?
-Life, my friend.
-Life is rarely a gift. More often a
burden.
-Better a burden than nothing.
-Life is like this soup.
-You are losing your mind.
-Sooner or later, we must cool off,
and be drunk by the greedy, nasty mouths of the world…
-Stop this talk.
-Savor it, deathless ground—
-I’ve had enough.
-Drink it, and swallow me whole—
...as
he pours the remaining soup onto the ground.
-Oh, the spirits rise—
-My dear wife come back to me—
-
-Is this it?
-
-
-
-The dead are risen.
-The dead are risen.
-The dead.
-The dead.
-Rejoice!
-All hail.
-
-
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