Black Leopard, Red Wolf

Ты убиваешь того мальчика, какой ты есть, чтобы стать мужчиной, каков ты есть, только иногда так и остаёшься мертвым.

Maybe this was how all stories end, the ones with true women and men, true bodies falling into wounding and death, and with real blood spilled. And maybe this is why the great stories we told are so different. Because we tell stories to live, and that sort of story needs a purpose, so that sort of story must be a lie. Because at the end of a true story , there is nothing but waste.

"I will have justice."
"You will have revenge"
"I will have whatever I choose to name it."

And one was the woman, and one was the man,
and both was the woman, and both was the man,
and neither was neither.

"You don't believe in belief. I butcher belief. We are the same."
"I will tell my mother she has one more son. She will laugh", I said.

White because even their skin rebel against their evil, for there is only so much vileness that your own skin can agree to. White like only the purest evil.

"When have you seen me saying any of this? Why do you say this to me?"
"I don't know. You can't go inside me and not expect me to go inside you."

Something drew me over at the toppled shelves - the plates, pots and bowls of drying fish - and under a chair. Under the chair looked right back at me.

They build a whole thing about it, about dark and night and even the colour black, which is not even a colour here. Not here.

He looked at me so long and so quiet that I opened my mouth, not to speak, just to look as if was going to.