Choisir

She felt his hand, the hand that had the previous night caressed that wife, who, undeserving, smiles and wallows in her lust. It is the bloody money, needless to say, the bitch is cold as stone I see her eyes, ice-blue dead cinders, fuzzy strands of useless gristle, no flames, nor spark just greed, opaque and still, and here I am, the one who must but cannot stay, whom he called Honey makes demands a jolly whistle transcends the dark the telephone - 'it is for you, ' 'oh, yes I will, would give my life would wait for you, is this your hand 'oh, please, no light, ' I shall be sad and then go mad.