I'm trapped between Kierkegaard and Nietzsche on a subway car hurtling beneath the ground at breakneck speeds. It's rush hour, standing room only, and we're packed in shoulder to shoulder, jostling for space, desperately clutching at the hand straps while this monstrous snake of steel and glass roars through the earth.
It wouldn't be so bad if they weren't already dead. All of them dead. Each and every one. And I'm stuck on this hellish commute with this bunch of mouldering zombies, diseased and decaying. Groaning aloud. Sighing within. Søren's once large friendly eyes have since disappeared giving way to gaping orbital cavities in a bleached skull. And Friedrich's distinctive large black moustache has been reduced to little more than the few bristles of a mangy broom on the last of some hardened skin.
