Fuchs:
You're getting deep, like Sartre or Stendahl...
Witold:
Anything relating to her can only be loving.
Fuchs:
That happens when a writer hangs a cat?
Witold:
And even if she can't guess who did it, she'll still be ashamed of the cat, which is her cat... our cat. That wasn't the real murder! How could this beauty, so perfect and out of reach, unite with me through lying?
Riportata da il
05/03/2025 alle ore 08:13
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