Shelter

No, there’s no way out, X tells me, not from this particular cul-de-sac. He should be happy he’s found his own little corner of the world, away from poverty. He’s happy, he says. Ecstatic. He’s found shelter, away from all the grotesque suffering, away from leprosy and poverty. He’s been lucky in life, he says. He has his one-bedroom flat and garden, he’s white, very white. He can rest easy, he says. Now he should help those less fortunate, do some good in the world, relieve the suffering. Maybe he should get a chinchilla, he says, to keep him company.

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