A sharp, mocking triangle of brows drawn to the temples looked at me from the mirror. She turned around to say something but said nothing.

It was not necessary; I knew.

To bid her goodbye, I moved my foreign limbs, struck the chair with them. It fell upside down, dead, like the table in her room. Her lips were cold⁠ ⁠… just as cold was once the floor, here, near my bed.⁠ ⁠…

When she left I sat down on the floor, bent over the cigarette-butt.⁠ ⁠…

I cannot write any more⁠—I no longer want to!