I bent over and picked up one, two, three of them; all bore the name D-503 . I was on all of them, drops of myself, of my molten, poured-out self. And that was all—that was left. …
Somehow I felt they should not lie there on the floor and be trodden upon. I gathered a handful of them, put them on the table and carefully smoothed them out, glanced at them and … laughed aloud! I never knew it before but now I know, and you too, know, that laughter may be of different colors. It is but a distant echo of an explosion within us; it may be the echo of a holiday, red, blue and golden fireworks, or at times it may represent pieces of human flesh exploded into the air. …
I noticed an unfamiliar name on some of the pink checks. I do not remember the figures but I do remember the letter— F . I brushed the stubs from the table to the floor, stepped on them, on myself, stamped on them with my heels—and went out. …
I sat in the corridor on the windowsill in front of her door and waited long and stupidly. An old man appeared. His face was like a pierced, empty bladder with folds; from beneath the puncture something transparent was still slowly dripping. Slowly, vaguely I realized—tears. And only when the old man was quite far off I came to and exclaimed:
“Please … listen. … Do you know … Number I-330 ?”
The old man turned around, waved his hand in despair and stumbled farther away. …
I returned home at dusk. On the west side the sky was twitching every second in a pale blue electric convulsion:—a subdued, heavy roar was proceeding from that direction. The roofs were covered with black charred sticks—birds.
I lay down; and instantly like a heavy beast sleep came and stifled me. …