Death had to take her little by little, bit by bit, dragging her along to the bitter end of the miserable existence she’d made for herself. They never even knew what she did die of. Some spoke of a chill. But the truth was that she died from poverty, from the filth and the weariness of her wretched life.
If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.
But you said so yourself,the poor lass will die of it…Do you really want her to die?’Yes, I’d rather she died than have a bad life.