A cruelly rotten man stepped from her grave and took with him all of her that had been left behind. He took her mind, killed a dog, he went so far to feed the dog to the skull.
There's always that moment, I guess, to slip through a backdoor, dead but full of conscious.
The thing left behind won't add anything else, nothing better than the taste it had.
The rotten man didn't need too much place. He went to a bar and drank a beer. Gimme some more,
he said. The barmaid did. He shrank, made some gesture, half conscious of both his attitude and hers.
Why furniture instead of nothing else. Why those images she had on her face, naked, dull.
She took his tale, lifted it, and from the point where she stood it vanished, deliberate, unconscious.
Now let me tell you something, the rotten man said. I've been dead for so many years.
I've been unconscious so many years. I know, the maiden said. Can't you take from the parts I have,
from that multitude of parts, that single one that makes me full, the cruelly rotten man said.
No, the barmaid said. It is against knowledge. You are not allowed to be here, she said.