Distant thunder warned of an approaching storm as the wedding party strolled along the Danube. Budapest’s new National Theatre had indeed been a lavish affair.
“I like that Cyrano only... [+]
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They were drowning.
Softly. Without fighting or even struggling to get back up to the surface, they were sinking. Without showing the slightest sign of resistance. As if, in a way, they were consenting to their fate. As if they were authorizing me to continue my heartless mission... Or rather, as if they were encouraging me not to stop. I watched, with something near admiration, their form which had grown limp, their color whitish, and the liquid around them which had become sticky. They were no longer themselves, they were no longer what they had been.
They were floating.
Like angels above their milky cloud. Travelling, under the pressure of my hand, through their last resting place. They seemed to have abandoned everything they knew, everything they had experienced, everything they loved. And they no longer belonged to what had once been their world. But, in the end, why was I getting so sentimental? They were only bits of breakfast cereal in a bowl of milk after all.