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Conspiracy in the Basement (1)
General Fiction地下室里的阴谋（一）
(federal Germany) Horst Posetzky
Tomaszewski was tired, he felt exhausted. Even though he was driving his stolen Volkswagen along Corte-Schulmacher Strasse at considerable speed, he kept closing his eyes. He had to close his eyes for a while before he could continue to endure the waves of painful fatigue. As much as he tried not to cry, tears flowed to his upper lip. The Jim he had just drank had given him a very strong sense of self-pity. Why didn't he have the strength to abandon everything and pursue the peace he longed for? Why didn't he die when he was still a child, say, twelve years old, before life had laid its full weight on his shoulders?
Tomaszewski was tired, he felt exhausted. Even though he was driving his stolen Volkswagen along Corte-Schulmacher Strasse at considerable speed, he kept closing his eyes. He had to close his eyes for a while before he could continue to endure the waves of painful fatigue. As much as he tried not to cry, tears flowed to his upper lip. The Jim he had just drank had given him a very strong sense of self-pity. Why didn't he have the strength to abandon everything and pursue the peace he longed for? Why didn't he die when he was still a child, say, twelve years old, before life had laid its full weight on his shoulders?
Conspiracy in the Basement (2)
General Fiction地下室里的阴谋（二）
(federal Germany) Horst Posetzky
Tomaszewski was tired, he felt exhausted. Even though he was driving his stolen Volkswagen along Corte-Schulmacher Strasse at considerable speed, he kept closing his eyes. He had to close his eyes for a while before he could continue to endure the waves of painful fatigue. As much as he tried not to cry, tears flowed to his upper lip. The Jim he had just drank had given him a very strong sense of self-pity. Why didn't he have the strength to abandon everything and pursue the peace he longed for? Why didn't he die as a child, say, twelve years old, before life had laid its full weight on his shoulders?
Tomaszewski was tired, he felt exhausted. Even though he was driving his stolen Volkswagen along Corte-Schulmacher Strasse at considerable speed, he kept closing his eyes. He had to close his eyes for a while before he could continue to endure the waves of painful fatigue. As much as he tried not to cry, tears flowed to his upper lip. The Jim he had just drank had given him a very strong sense of self-pity. Why didn't he have the strength to abandon everything and pursue the peace he longed for? Why didn't he die as a child, say, twelve years old, before life had laid its full weight on his shoulders?