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(Substitution of the crucifixtion of Jesus for the conscience of the murderer)
Knives cut deep, deep enough that life ends with just a gaze. You can count a life in many different ways: a flick of a rock against a wall, a branch snapped off a tree, a sad relative that doesn't know to cry yet. One by one the lives you take are counted - you living for strength without that number that has fallen by your hand.
The life that was there last: that was a bad one. The man died dragging at the ground; a cruel man does that – he clutches for dirt, wondering what strength he can gain from the number of people the man ignored. You would never say that men deserve to enjoy that. That’s something you learn struggling with people as they die. Some choked, some find a way to live murdering the spirit of someone else.
Here I am, choking bad. The sun is hot. There they are. We are alive. I have left them but they have left me. That blood I can see is blood that I needed. Am I supposed to tell that it’s my blood? I feel like spitting at the sun.
I’ll tell that one something. Shorter. I’ve never… the thief doesn’t know anything… there are people who deserve to die more than others. The man rests, that is to a murderer what I would call quite amazing… I want to tell him that you can’t do that and be guilty. The wind was hot, I don’t care. They turn or they stand. I feel I’m there. The thief speaks aloud:
Being continued…
Enjoy, my brothers and sisters.
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