You are a dog who has murdered just everyone.
You are a man. You are a man.
You are a woman, and no good to anybody.
You were weak once, long ago, in a land where the sun shone. Now everyone you know is dead.
A man once taught you how to love by beating you gently with his calloused hands. Now he is dead.
You are a man. You have soft hands, and you went to college, and you are useless.
You are cold, and you are going to die. You find this faintly interesting.
You are blind in one eye. Just to be safe, you have killed everyone.
Your enemy is dead in the dust at your feet. Now you are finally free to respect him.
You are engaged in a prolonged philosophical debate with something that is in the process of killing you.
Yours is a still and terrible fury that cannot possibly be tamed.
You are only a boy, but you know your own worth, and you have curled your hand into a fist that will someday punch the world.
You are French-Canadian, and impossibly cruel. Someday one of your mistreated dogs will tear out your throat.
You are in the Santa Clara Valley, and surrounded by flowers and children. This haunts you.
You are dying in the snow. This suits you.
You are in a jute mill, and you have stolen another man’s woman. She makes good pancakes.
You are at sea, and you are going to die. You find this insulting.
You are in a constant struggle for dominance.
You are no–
YOU ARE IN A CONSTANT STRUGGLE FOR DOMINANCE.
You have developed a tortured, nihilistic philosophy all your own over the course of your years at sea. It is terrible.
An old-timer has given you advice; you did not take it. You will drown in your own folly, and also in an ice river.
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.