It's a cafe filled with adorable animals.
. . . And they're all dead.
"As you leave your body ó you realize something is happening. You hear a sound. . . getting louder and louder. . . screaming . . .weeping. . . wailing. Terror and fear beyond anything you could imagine overtakes you. "This canít be happening!" you scream. Your nostrils are filling with the awful stench of burning souls. Your face ignites from the heat. Flames are now blazing from your eyes, nostrils, ears, mouth ó every opening in your body, flames are roaring out. Your body is sizzling and crackling from the flames.
Your body is now madly thrashing and convulsing from the horrible pain. "Why donít I die?", you scream. You begin weeping and gnashing your teeth with the millions. "When will this pain stop?" But you know it will never stop. . .
The darkness is so terrifying, it begins engulfing you. You feel something moving in the darkness. . . something horrible is happening. "No! No! This canít be happening" you scream ó as your worm is emerging.
And you soon realize that Jesus Christ was right. There is a place called hell.
AND YOU ARE THERE ó FOREVER!"
— Terry Watkins
''You think that we're going to run out of air. That we're going to die gasping. But we're not."
"We'll freeze to death first.''
— River Tam, Firefly
Morning in San Caralampio,
Schoolchildren gather around
From Guatemala their families have fled to this Mexican town
A woman from north of the border
Opens a box on the floor
Gives them all crayons and paper, some never have seen these before
Draw me a picture of home, she says
Anything you can recall
Use all the colors, then we'll put them up on the wall
And the children draw guns,
Bullets and blood
Soldiers in uniform burning their houses
Trampling gardens to mud
The children of San Caralampio draw pictures of guns
— Mark Cohen, The Children Draw Guns
But my enjoyment was tempered somewhat by the regular intrusions of Mr Noseybonk. Mr Noseybonk was a sort of leering death-masked figure who was supposed to be gently amusing but wound up haunting my dreams, because he struck me as precisely the sort of figure who'd sneak into a stranger's bedroom in the dead of night and knife you, and knife you, and knife you, and knife you, and knife you...
—Charlie Brooker on Jigsaw