Chilly hands enwrapped the night . . .

Chilled are my hands, he thought, as he stuffed them in his coat. Oh, Lord, what is the matter with me? Here I walk in dejected silence, and over there, not twenty yards away, laughter plays.

Across the street three boys were rolling beer cans on the sidewalk; they sounded hollow against the rough cement.

. . . Hollow, yes, like my mind. Dark, long thoughts envelop my brain fibres; the process of thinking is one constant torment, one anguish that has no end nor beginning. I'm not saying anything, foolish person; I am only feeling, feeling the pits of despondecy.

Steps, steps, steps; one after another, straight, regular, passive, soundless. He reached the entry, climbed the stairs slowly. Once he stopped and looked around. No one was there.

. . . Of course, no one is there. I was just wondering if I was hungry, or what I could do to get out of this mood. It's hopeless; I'm no good for anything; I'm through. I guess I'll go to bed.

He turned back the blankets and sank beneath them. The touch of sheets cooled and soothed his body. He stretched his toes out; it was a pleasant sensation; it relaxed him. His head began to throb.

. . . Why can't my wrist pulse, or my thigh, instead of my head? Will I think and twist this thought and that all night? Will I never sleep? Is this the climax?

Gradually his legs grew numb; they were the first to fall asleep. The numbness crept up his body, as ideas--all sick and diseased--ran little circles in his mind. He turned over on his left side; he doubled his legs; he moved his hands under the pillow. He rested. He turned back again on his right side; he crossed his legs; he extended them. His subconscious grasped him, and without recognition he was asleep.

Dreams, nightmares, interminable abysses of utter blankness--these toyed with his defenceless mind. Unconscious, he moved about during the hours of the night. He ran down black alleys, he leapt over cliffs and fell through the air like a feather; he walked into a store with a big glass window and bought an automobile; a girl with a flopping white hat chased him up a flight of stairs (he remembered thinking that he had seen her face before. In Boston?): he saw beer cans dropping from the ceiling. Dawn approached, and his blankets and sheets lay messed.

Abruptly he awoke. His hand was stiff and numbed; he shook it. He pulled up the clothes so they were straight and faut.

. . . I really am better. Last night seems very far off. Sometime I will have to think about it--objectively. God, I'm hungry! Rest, sleep--healing, wonderful, the Fountain of Youth, a sulphur bath. (My father takes sulphur baths.) Like a mountain stream: cool, trebling, ceaselessly flowing. What is it? Who knows what it is? It alone has the same value for eternity; it alone is worthwhile. Boy, smell that bacon! I'll be down there in a jiffy. . . .