What do I think is going to happen to me at the end?, W. asks me. I’ll die with froth on my lips, he’s sure of 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 shoot me out of disgust like a dog.
And what about him (W.)? He’ll have starved to death, W. says, having given up all hope, all desire. There he'll sit, a skeleton by the window, who'd hoped that things could be otherwise, but learnt that things could never be otherwise.
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