Later that night, up in Pablo's attic flat, we drifted back to that cage, and Pablo said, not definitively, but testily, like a proposition
'That must be the worst way to die, I think, in captivity.'
A hundred other cruel deaths occurred to me and I put it in doubt.
'Ok, Ok,'
he continued,
'we all know that being tortured is the worst, we found that out as children, but I mean apart from that fascination with the violence side I think I'd prefer to drown or be run over or get an odd disease or something, at least you've only fate to moan at, and really there's no point in that. You could at least drown on holiday after a good night out, or crash your motorbike or whatever, but free, fulfilling yourself, I don't know, living. In jail, fuck, it's like existence for the hell of it; eat shit and sleep. You could probably stand a few years, but to die there?'
I reminded him then of what Loli had said
'I can't understand how they can do it; they look so ugly and miserable when they're locked up. They can't help it if they happen to have longer beaks or finer fur, can they? I reckon that those that lock things up is because they've got something caged up in themselves,'
and although she didn't say what it was, she gave us to understand that it would be something like love, or compassion, or understanding.
Out under that night sky a thousand souls were suffering, and as many Lolis were trying to push nuts through the bars, and thankfully, cutting clearly through the caressing air came the sound of clapping and singing and laughter.
'You could be right,'
I said.