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.
Two explosions of blood. Two strangled cries, blood on the walls. It's all Lars's fault, W. tries to say, but no words come out. It was him all along: a bubble of blood and nothing else.
Lars Iyer's Blog 