The fourth rat's death was saturday morning looney tunes. Arm stretched out in one final grasp for the bread and twist-tie combo. One eye bulging from the pressure on his neck made it look like he had just seen some bugs bunny-type rat in a blonde wig and frilly dress.
As promised, part two:
"It's not true that writing has helped me. During the weeks I worked on the story the story never ceased to work on me. Writing has not been, as I supposed at first, the remembering of a set period in my life but only a constant affectation of remembering in the form of sentences that merely claim detachment. Even now I wake up in the night with a start, nudged out of sleep by something within me, and, breathless with horror, feel myself decomposing from one second to the next. The air in the darkness is so still that things seem to have lost their equilibrium, be torn from their moorings, and once they've floated noiselessly about for a while with no center of gravity they suddenly come crashing down on all sides and smother me. These anxiety attacks make me as magnetic as rotting carrion, and what I experience in place of an indifferent place of well-being, where feelings freely interact with one another, is indifferent, objective terror."
From: Helping Verbs of The Heart by Peter Esterhazy
