posted by Kevin at 11:10 PM
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Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines in them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.
2 Comments:
What is this? And I'm not singing a Faith No More song.
Through the window of a dilapidated garage. With a desk with a spedomotor on it.
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