
Saïd Sayrafiezadeh Reads Samuel Beckett
The New Yorker: Fiction
The Sleep of a Lamb
One evening she was followed by a lamb reared for slaughter like the others it left them to follow her and the present to conclude also by gone slaughter apart. Nothing now for the staring eye but the chair in its solitude. The whole brood no sooner hatched long before in the egg long before over and done with answering.
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