Her beauty was withering, she was writhing; wasted, bedridden.



It was all dark. He woke up with such a startle. He heard cries. Agonizing sobs. She was crying in her room. Crying at 5 in the morning. But his room was quiet, so quiet that he could hear static pulsing away in the electric cables.




He does not dream, for he has neither yearnings nor recollections of the past. However he sees glimpses of the future. And he saw her, sleeping so blissfully on his bed. He daren't breathe for fear of waking the maiden. She seemed to blush gently with secret joy with each rise, each fall of her breasts.



Has it always been the same girl? He isn't sure. He doesn't want to be sure. He's afraid. Very afraid. Because he has been looking at the pieces in reverse chronological order, and they seem almost set in their places.