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. There’s nothing here.
I don’t want to spend time with you - why would I? The prerequisite isn’t met. Please, please, do something. Make me proud. Just once would be enough.
I’m 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, I’m afraid your shape is fixed now, brittle. A great shattering, or a great nothing, I’ll leave it up to you.