Monologue

Stranger Monologue from To Damascus

From To Damascus by August Strindberg

any · anguished · 27 sec

Not to us! We've been driven from the garden, and must wander over stones and thistles. And when our hands and feet are bruised, we feel we must rub salt in the wounds of the... other one. And then the mill starts grinding. It'll never stop; for there's always water.

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