Pregelj’s protagonists don’t know the present life, they live their washed-out triviality, it keeps bringing them down, faceless and shallow, etches their dignity, leaving them without hope of a change. Unless … The only thing that can shoot them out of the depressing triviality is pathology, violence, the madness of violence. Evil. It makes them forget about the empty claptrap about justice, morality and how things should be. In just one moment all the pondering about the transitoriness of things seems to evaporate from their heads. In this moment only, they exist – guilty of murder – otherwise able to live normally , but the problem is that in the next moment everything is ruined and most of all, so final. For everything else is irrevocably too late.