- Writing - vignettes
- Previous - 11. Balcony
Hollowness of life in a small English village. Why diminish myself? In two days I depart, never to return; this is not where life is. Thereβs nothing here.
I donβt want to spend time with you - why would I? The prerequisite isnβt met. Please, please, do something. Make me proud. Just once would be enough.
Iβm no longer hoping. You are all cowards, it gives me no joy to say. Well, perhaps a bitter satisfaction in the utterance, in drawing this line - you are all there, and I am here.
In the end, it comes down to: are you brave enough to save yourself, or at least to try? It seems that this is a rare trait.
No more futile working with set clay, Iβm afraid your shape is fixed now, brittle. A great shattering, or a great nothing, Iβll leave it up to you.
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