05-28-2022, 11:14:09 AM
What if you killed the stranger with a non-poison weapon because they were like, a nazi or something, but the food on their plate is normal food as well as evidence implicating that you did the crime?
Should you not eat the food from their plate and then destroy the plate or bury it in some remote location and then clean the scene of the crime and then burn the scene of the crime and then flee the country and never look back, reestablishing yourself under the identity of Lewis Martingale somewhere in the Swiss Alps, an ordinary struggling author who wrote some moderately successful books about birdwatching, occasionally wondering if you'll ever be caught, sometimes longing to go back home, to return to your old life, but knowing it's far too late, and that past is dead, then steeling yourself and looking forward to the future, another day sitting in your house, another day of your neighbors wondering who you are who appeared so suddenly, another day walking to the shops to buy a cup of coffee and a pastry, never drinking the coffee, pretending to read a newspaper in a language you don't speak, taking comfort in the routine, but still occasionally allowing yourself to slip back into could-have-beens and should-have-dones before once again reaffirming that the past is dead and turning back to the newspaper in the language you don't speak, turning a page, and looking at the editorial cartoon, eliciting a vague chuckle at the fact that no matter what language the text is in, there are too many labels on every element of the cartoon, and the message of "them do bad" is conveyed in a visceral way, then folding up the newspaper and returning to your house, and closing the door, and then lying awake at night, forever haunted by the past no matter how hard you try to avoid it?
Should you not eat the food from their plate and then destroy the plate or bury it in some remote location and then clean the scene of the crime and then burn the scene of the crime and then flee the country and never look back, reestablishing yourself under the identity of Lewis Martingale somewhere in the Swiss Alps, an ordinary struggling author who wrote some moderately successful books about birdwatching, occasionally wondering if you'll ever be caught, sometimes longing to go back home, to return to your old life, but knowing it's far too late, and that past is dead, then steeling yourself and looking forward to the future, another day sitting in your house, another day of your neighbors wondering who you are who appeared so suddenly, another day walking to the shops to buy a cup of coffee and a pastry, never drinking the coffee, pretending to read a newspaper in a language you don't speak, taking comfort in the routine, but still occasionally allowing yourself to slip back into could-have-beens and should-have-dones before once again reaffirming that the past is dead and turning back to the newspaper in the language you don't speak, turning a page, and looking at the editorial cartoon, eliciting a vague chuckle at the fact that no matter what language the text is in, there are too many labels on every element of the cartoon, and the message of "them do bad" is conveyed in a visceral way, then folding up the newspaper and returning to your house, and closing the door, and then lying awake at night, forever haunted by the past no matter how hard you try to avoid it?
I am the They who says it!