- Is the shore really so close? – Nasha laments.

- Sure it is, and the townsmen are eating heavy dinners in their warm houses while the storm is raping the Deliverance – Oblak lies on the bed looking at the ceiling. Roof above our heads, safety, he contemplates, and is not very sure if he deserves it.

  But on the other hand, there is no greater feat for a writer than to get fired from a regular job in order to dedicate him or herself to the writing. It’s a medicine for a troubled soul, a ritual cleansing after slaving for the most dangerous master of all – money.

- Okay, so Rasap is intelligent after all – he begins their game, not unlike a game God must’ve played in his free time, once he gave names to all the animals – And Libero is the deranged one. But he didn’t kill the widow, did he?

- The widow almost killed him. He came to her farm, dirty, hungry wanderer he was. When she washed him, scrubbed off those miles and miles of unhappiness and solitude, she noticed he wasn’t a half bad looking man at all. She gave him supper and put him to work – Nasha lies down by Oblak and 


they both try to decipher the plot of their story from the white cottage cheese ceiling.

- From that day on, he chopped wood, went hunting for rabbits, plowed the land, washed the dishes after dinner, and gave her pleasure after dinner in her bed. But she made him sleep on the floor. In less than a month she got tired of him and ordered him to leave. He didn’t want to. She would beat him in the evening, and he would be back in the morning. It went like that until she found a new lover, a lumberjack who broke both Libero’s arms – Oblak counts on his fingers how long was it since Nasha and him last made love.

- The voice spread, the widow took care of that, that there is a dangerous man, Libero is his name, who wants to kill her, who is determinate to kill all the women in the village. He had to escape. He ran to the woods, and from woods to the town. Afterwards, he wasn’t really sure if he really did kill the widow or was it just his wishful thinking.

- Maybe he isn’t crazy, maybe he is just sad – Nasha whispers.

- Yeah – Oblak grins – he’s not crazy, but with a little help…


- Fools! Help me!