The old monk Krepkin came back to the city after many years in the monastery. He went to a park crawling with memories. Lucinda was there, waiting for him. "You're here," he said. She handed him a carnation, shook out her hair. She was still beautiful. "So are you," she said. He sat down next to her and looked out on a pond of ducks. "We're like them aren't we?" he said. "Why did you come back?" she said.
A cold breeze came down from the mountain, carrying apoplexy. The lovers began to cough with violence. From Lucinda's mouth came a blood-covered baby, who lay in a bundle of rags at her feet and looked up at Krepkin, eyes burning. Krepkin vomited a small man, who took one trembling look at Lucinda and dove into the pond. The lovers held each other and wept and their tears mixed to form an edifice of contemporary rationality, which towered above them and dropped bricks and mortar near their heads. Soon they were walled in and an undertaker began to pile dirt around them. "I wanted to avoid this," said Krepkin, dodging a rock.
When the dirt reached their necks and they could no longer move, Lucinda asked, "Wasn't it always like this?" Krepkin sighed, "I suppose even the ducks have their prison."
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