Monologue

Stranger Monologue from To Damascus

From To Damascus by August Strindberg

any · anguished · 31 sec

In a way, no. They feed me with tit-bits, as if I were to be fattened for the butcher. But I can't eat because they grudge it me, and I feel the cold rays of their hate. To me it seems there's an icy wind everywhere, although it's still and hot. And I can hear that accursed mill....

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