Steps. Wind. Damp, leaping fragments of lights and faces.⁠ ⁠… And while running: “No! Only to see her! To see her once more!”

Here again, an empty white page. All I remember is feet; not people, just feet; hundreds of feet, confusedly stamping feet, falling from somewhere on the pavement; a heavy rain of feet.⁠ ⁠… And some cheerful, daring voice, and a shout that was probably for me: “Hey, hey! Come here! Come along with us!”

Afterward⁠—a deserted square heavily overloaded with tense wind. In the middle of the square a dim, heavy threatening mass⁠—the Machine of the Well-Doer; and a seemingly unexpected image arose within me in response to the sight of the Machine: a snow-white pillow and on the pillow a head thrown back, and half-closed eyes and a sharp, sweet line of teeth.⁠ ⁠… All this seemed so absurdly, so terribly connected with the Machine. I know how this connection has come about but I do not yet want to see it nor to say it aloud⁠—I don’t want to! I do not!