Death, death. It's time for the kill. We're upside down, hanging from butcher's hooks, our throats bared. Death is sharpening its razor. Death is going to slash our throats wide. An explosion of blood. Two strangled cries, blood on the floor …
Help me, W. tries to say, but no words come out. Help me: a bubble of blood and nothing else. But death never comes. Death isn't there to help us. Do we lack even the power to die?
Lars Iyer's Blog 