Looking at those thick diaries, one after another, they carry so much, lying quietly within this city during Bologue's hunt for slaughter, always waiting.
Next door, the sound of a man and woman arguing breaks out, clearly penetrating through the wall, while on the other side, the television blares, with the host endlessly talking amidst the aggressive music.
This world is so noisy, so vast, yet completely unrelated to Bologue. He seems hidden in the shadows of the world, unseen by anyone, as if he never existed.
Just like a slowly decaying corpse, covered with grotesque growths, maggots crawling, laying dense clusters of eggs, viscous liquid oozing from wounds, pooling everywhere...
Bologue doesn't know how long he's been lying like this, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, as if everything beneath the shell—organs, flesh, soul—has been emptied out.
Just like an empty shell.
This feeling is quite familiar, as if returning to that dark, sunless prison.
