The Survivor

The Survivor

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I remember: the initial throe and the horror changed into loathing for them and the system that is talked of and never seen and then for my flesh that remained jerking with each stroke. One by one, having kept aside his black terror, hailed his vainglorious rigidity, and repeated the ritual, till it was over done. Then I was strangled and left a dead abomination. And now the bastards are dead, each bearing volleys of bullets in his hirsute chest. The loathing gradually changes into love and compassion for these strewn lumps of flesh. In my ‘wild lament’ I weep

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