It was about 4 in the afternoon. It was letting up, after hours of hard rain. He could not hear the sound of the rain outside the windows. He was watching the rain, attentively. He was making up the sound in his mind. Droplets of water were running on the glass windows. It must be cold outside, he thought, as it was cold here, in the room.
His mind was foggy, as it was foggy outside. Images of kisses, the smell of the skin of the body he hugged conjured up in his head. Something was churning up in his stomach, he felt.
The moments had come, and gone.
He watched the white curtain, and thought about Woolf. He seemed to be wondering something he did not even know himself wondering. He was startled, by being his own. The body was fresh, soft, young and voluptuous.
It was a room of the past. And he was ceasing to exist, seconds by seconds.