Can’t we afterwards speak together? Talk together in another room. Without the guards. Besides I feel so feeble and these circumstances are dreary and squalid. We could discourse on comedy and the woeful state of the library here. They show films, of course, but nothing really to stimulate the mind. And I would so love to hear Strauss or Bruckner again, and not tarry with these cretins and defectives. Who knows what fever one could get from these dwellers of the abyss, the scratching mongol marionettes. The signs are everywhere. We live in a flux of blood.
© 2024 Philip Best
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