'Have we been good?, W. asks me. 'Have we led good lives?' Ah, but it's too late now. We've been struck, left for dead. Struck, knocked over, and our assailant zoomed away. We wander in the wake, dazed, white-faced. What happened? Who did this to us? But we have no idea. We're out of ideas, and dying of internal injuries, our insides pooling with blood …
Our last words: is it time for them? Last words, but it's only bubbles of blood that speak; only blood tricking from the corners of our mouths.
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