Sublime

colloquial,

Hitchcockian protagonist,

One of them picked up a shovel and spaded earth. Since coming to the camp, their guilt had died and left behind a husk, whose hair and flesh were crackly like onion skin. We buried the husks and covered them with dirt, each scoop sending them further away, to some far-off place. All of us were crying never-ending violent tears. Then over on the sun

“Yes . . . I’m covered with blood,” Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs.