I'm so goth i'm dead: el Pato

Yet who would ever have believed that some obscure duck, sitting at the centre of the world in a bathroom, say, thinking solitary miserable thoughts, was authoring their doom, that, even while he was thinking, it was as if behind the scenes certain strings were pulled, and whole continents burst into flame, and calamity moved nearer -just as now, at this moment perhaps with a sudden jolt and grind, calamity had moved nearer, and, without el Pato's knowing it, outside the sky had darkened. Or perhaps it was not a duck at all, but a child duck, a little duck, innocent as that other el Pato had been, who sat up in an organ loft somewhere playing, pulling out all the stops at random, and kingdoms divided and fell, and abominations dropped from the sky -a duck innocent as that infant sleeping in the coffin which had slanted past him down the Calle Tierra del Fuego...