The prisoner awaits his execution,
a calmness around him, he is prepared, nothing matters now. He withers, a man who is dead, but has to go through a barrier of restraint:
A mercy for the faulty, in some aspect a signal for the living: the visualization, and the ceremony, not for the farewell but to shriek the spines of the spectators.
His meal ready, the last wish. Just the regular cafeteria food. His hands piecing through the meal, getting over the need. He starts salivating, all the reflections, probably didn't sleep all right. Slurps the bland coffee; something in him clings. It's like the end is not. Every meal is shadowed by the last one, unknown what a last meal looks like. He knows... but not yet.
The strange mercy of the body, still hungry, still here, refusing to let the soul leave before the appointed hour, as if life itself, indifferent to verdicts, insists on being tasted to the last drop.
