He wondered how much longer he would be able to bear it.Four hundred and one, another one gone.The rhyme was mocking him. How many safe-deposit boxes with those now-hypnotic numbers – 4, 0, 1 – had he tried the key in? Fifty? Even more? He didn’t know. The weekdays were like a haze. All he did was drive the car and go into banks and find his position using the road atlas and send short messages over the Internet. There was nothing else.Until the weekends. Then it all came crashing down on him. The longing. The hopelessness. The knowledge of defeat.Their dreams would remain dreams.But worst of all was the longing. His entire being – body, soul, spirit, everything he could imagine – was screaming for her. The weekends were a long, drawn-out agony. A walk to Golgotha.Hymenaeus has been called to Thrace in vain.He hugged the flea-bitten pillow until the feathers started slipping out and floating around the room. His eyes fell on the small digital clock. It had just turned 10.31.That was when he felt the jolt.The jolt passed through his entire being like electricity; a violent impulse which shot through every nerve cell in his body, out to the more ethereal connections of his soul and his spirit.
What do You think about To The Top Of The Mountain?
