That urgent
voice calls out in a long, stretched-out crescendo, rising terribly to a
forzando.
“Are you sure you can cope?” it asks.
It says
nothing more than, nothing less than that. In fact, it seems to say nothing at
all.
“Are you sure you can cope?” it questions relentlessly.
Having hit its
apex, it recedes gradually into the background, diminishing from a demand, into
a whimpering doubt. Self-confidence delivers Doubt a thrashing. He stands over
her prostrate body, triumphant in his victory (is it
pyrrhic?)
It can’t be.
She’s bruised and battered, he has merely a papercut
on him (but which hurts more?)
dejectium out
0817 hrs gmt +8
30 august 2005
on svc 151, whitley
road