Most of my few friends, thank God not all, are dead or disabled – Jim Macintosh dead, Ken Hales also, Foden shot through the spine and Frank Ballard paralysed for life. I know my friends, they’re like myself – we were all intelligent, sure of our own thought; we knew what we believed and were never afraid. But I feel nearly alone now, though I stand in for my sick and dead, I believe. There are times when I feel alone in the face of our society, its hatred and madness, its despair and violence. To go on drawing my pay, to go on living in Acacia Circus, to go on acting on my own, just to go on at all, I have to be very careful. I feel the edge of the precipice with every step I take and have to be most particular how I tread; the path isn’t solid, and under it is the mist and that vile slide towards a bottomless death. I am a minor figure for whom no god waits. The state that pays me laughs at me; my own people at work find me absurd. I dream across the altar of my past, have many enemies.
What do You think about How The Dead Live (Factory 3)?
