Our friends, what has happened to our friends? W. dreamt we could stand shoulder to shoulder with them all; that we would be, standing together, a kind of phalanx, stronger than we would be on our own. He dreamt we'd mated for life like swans, and that we could no more betray one another than tear off our own limbs. But he was wrong, terribly wrong, for news has come that they are turning on one another, our friends, just as we, one day, will turn upon one another, W. says.
It has to happen; he sees that now. It has to fall apart. Wasn't his dream, always, that we could hold back the apocalypse? But we will not hold it back; the apocalypse begins with what is closest to us. And what's my role in all this?, W. wonders. Where do I stand? Et tu, idiot?, W. will say as I slip the knife between his ribs. Et tu?, as he sees my face is only that of the apocalypse ...
