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“The blade, freed by the half-turn, floated after him, shining, drawing a fan of red droplets in its wake. The streaming raven-black hair floated in the air, floated, floated, floated... The head fell onto the gravel. There are fewer and fewer monsters? And I? What am I? Who's shouting? The birds? The woman in a sheepskin jacket and blue dress? The roses from Nazair? How quiet! How empty. What emptiness. Within me.” — Andrzej Sapkowski
The blade, freed by the half-turn, floated after him, shining, drawing a fan of red droplets in its wake. The streaming raven-black hair floated in the air, floated, floated, floated...
The head fell onto the gravel.
There are fewer and fewer monsters?
And I? What am I?
Who's shouting? The birds?
The woman in a sheepskin jacket and blue dress?
The roses from Nazair?
How quiet!
How empty. What emptiness.
Within me.