I'll die with froth on my lips, W. says. He knows it. I'll die like some rabid animal with wild eyes and dirt under my nails. I'll have tried to dig my way out. I'll have gone mad from confinement, and they'll have shot me out of disgust like a dog.
I'll die with froth on my lips, W. says. He knows it. I'll die like some rabid animal with wild eyes and dirt under my nails. I'll have tried to dig my way out. I'll have gone mad from confinement, and they'll have shot me out of disgust like a dog.
Lars Iyer's Blog 