I don’t know what title—Perhaps the whole synopsis may be called a cast-off cigarette-butt.
I awoke. A bright glare painful to look at. I half closed my eyes. My head seemed filled with some caustic blue smoke. Everything was enveloped in fog and through the fog:
“But I did not turn on the light … then how is it. …”
I jumped up. At the table, leaning her chin on her hand and smiling, was I-330 , looking at me.
She was at the very table at which I am now writing. Those ten or fifteen minutes are already behind me, cruelly twisted into a very firm spring. Yet it seems to me that the door closed after her only a second ago and that I could still overtake her and grasp her hand—and that she might laugh out and say. …