It seems so strange, quietly, deliberately, measuring every word, to write down my adventure with R- . Imagine yourself sitting down at your own bed, crossing your legs, watching curiously how you yourself shrivel in the very same bed. My mental state is similar to that.

When R-13 came in I was perfectly quiet and normal. I began with sincere admiration to tell him how wonderfully he succeeded in versifying the death sentence of that insane man, and that his poem more than anything else had smothered and annihilated the transgressor of the law.

“More than that,” I said, “if I were ordered to prepare a mathematical draught of the Machine of the Well-Doer, I should undoubtedly⁠—undoubtedly, put on that draught some of your verses!”⁠—Suddenly I saw R-’s eyes becoming more and more opaque, his lips acquiring a gray tint.