semiconductor

Razumikhin just smiles at this, his aforementioned heaviness refusing to budge. "You are ever so witty, friend. Keep talking, see where it gets you, just know it won't get me away, for I refuse to allow you to stumble yourself into another fainting spell. If my actions become only a pig, as you so insightfully put it, then so be it-- let me roll around in filth and shovel slop as a proper pig should." He chuckles again at the thought, his joyousness unbefit to the situation. It was if he was enjoying this, this smothering of unwanted warmth-- a notion that only makes Raskolnikov's righteous anger boil further until it's practically vibrating out of him. "Yes, yes," Razumikhin continues, satisfied with his wretched misdoings. "I shall be the best pig." The sheer absurdity of this childish, petty retort once again leaves Raskolnikov speechless. He stutters through several half-finished thoughts before abandoning the concept of speaking entirely-- for words are taxing to a fevered mind, and it is much easier for a man in such a state to close his eyes, intending to formulate a response in scholarly, dignified silence. But there is no counter to an argument that doesn't exist, and indeed Razumikhin had not put forth an argument of any sort-- no, he had simply stayed exactly where he was, and it was clear no amount of intellectual posturing or protests would budge the stubborn bastard. But coming to this conclusion had tired Raskolnikov greatly, so that the weight on top of him was becoming heavier and heavier upon his mind. As a branch dips subtly under the weight of gathering snow just before it breaks, it is that slow, gentle give of that strains his taxed head, that forces twitching, tense sleep upon him. once again, i'm so sorry dostoevksy