In Celsius or Fahrenheit [antikvár]

WHITE RATS Prisoners 1 2 have been lifted out of their cell, put on the elevátor of the warden's arm and induced to do their daily Walkathon. They sniff, they stand on two feet at first, hunched and watchful, then begin to cover fast, assured, the track of the armrests. They have mapped out the terrain of the couch. They use the warden's body, too, as a connecting road: they trust his scent, his intentions, while he cares for them more than he admits to. In a tight spot, they all inhale the same air. He's their doctor, their dietitian. Their judge. He wants to reduce their sentence, even let them go. But will freedom lead to death? It seems love must keep captives. Thus, prisoners will age with the warden, will rest on his neck from time to time, breathe into his ear like owls. And he'11 teli them about the absence of freedom in his life, the dwindling number of décisions he can make.