His form is no more than a black point, a blind insect nibbling at the road and entering the earth's lair.... One last step. It is over, it is over.
My arms fall, I turn back stumbling, dizzy. How can you tell what sort of a road it is when the sun is the color of mourning and the summer has the taste of tears?... Doesn't he know?
Noon. The Angelus tosses its twelve bronze strokes at the sun and they slowly dissolve. But I am insensible to everything. Everything. The host of trees, the flashing breastplate of the sea turn around an empty space.
Why this sky stretching out after the branches, why this sparkling happiness, why this sleepiness of the earth when I am racked and branded with a red-hot iron by what I failed to say while there was still time?