The anarchist

Soth Polin

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Oh my dear, how still you lie, spread-eagled in the white snow that’s stained with the scarlet pools of your blood spilled out in a long trail all the way to my flipped car … You see, that car could have made my father so happy! So listen to my story, told with the brute honesty that the spectacle of your crushed beauty, the fact of your death, inspires in me. You know, it’s quite beautiful, the red and the white, the blood and the snow … I am capable of the vilest lies, but not in front of this, not in front of you…

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