> We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away. [...] > A swallow flits past, purple against

> We are the killers. We stink of death. We carry it with us. It sticks to us like frost. We cannot tear it away. [...] > A swallow flits past, purple against the roaring whiteness of the weir, blue over the green smoothness of the river. As so often on spring evenings, no birds sing near me, while all the distant trees and bushes ring with song. Like all human beings, I seem to walk within a hoop of red-hot iron, a hundred yards across, that sears away all life. When I stand still, it cools, and slowly disappears.