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“Pescara’s awful anyway,” threw in Baron Rikard. “Wouldn’t be caught dead in Pescara.” “You are dead,” said Vigga. “But I wouldn’t be caught.”
“If there’s a secret…” mused Vigga, who’d either forgotten she still had her legs wide open or didn’t care, “it’s to never be shy about asking the question, and never fear what the answer will be, and waste no tears over the refusals, and clutch with both hands at any flicker of warmth that can be clawed from the uncaring darkness of existence.” Alex slowly nodded. “Only that, eh?”
Men born to peace and privilege often crave the approval of the violent.
