It was a disgusting, filthy grey morning outside the window, and everything in the room in which I awoke was just as disgusting, myself included. The sheets were damp and sweaty. Thank God, no one was lying next to me. I got up, went over to the window – there was a filthy, trashy yard in which a couple of hens were scratching around. It would be a miracle if I could remember where I am and how I got here.

I had all my clothes on. Nothing was lying around anywhere on the floor. There were no empty bottles. There were no bottles at all. I felt all my pockets – nothing there. Nothing under the bed either, nor was my bottle anywhere in the bed, all wrapped up in the sheets.

I went over to the door, pulled at it, it was shut tight. The key was nowhere around. I kicked the door, and then again. Silence. And then suddenly somewhere behind the wall a woman yelled out. She was yelling terribly, as if giving birth. Then again, and again. On top of everything, I had a head-ache.

I remembered that someone had wanted to throw up all over me . . . The Hermaphrodite too . . . Had it been an angel? Indeed, an angel. The gentle, little girl, who got it in the head with a bottle. So it goes for little girls.

The heart of the Lonely Rabbit . . . Where? The room is grey, everything outside the window is grey, not the least bit rosy . . .

. . . I was in a tavern. Somewhere. But I wanted to be home.

The window seemed too high, and I’d already jumped through it once before. I didn’t want to do it again. I pulled the sheet off the bed – it was too short.

And then suddenly everything started spinning . . .

Rose . . .

From where?

From where does this word come – not the flower – but the name – not the name of the flower – but just as frail – a word so pale – with a sense of time – of the first ones – and the ones that follow – those at the periphery – passing by at a distance – those outside – passing by on that side – a sickly time – just passing on by – like a flower – like the name of a flower – all pale . . .

. . . I had died and become transformed, dying yet anew . . .

. . . I noticed myself standing by the window and gazing out into the endless emptiness, there are no others, a limited emptiness is a deceptive emptiness, and there was even emptiness behind me. Rose was standing back there somewhere, but who she really was, and who it was standing behind Rose, who they both were, it was as if I knew, but didn’t know, and then the third one, very much neither this nor that, she not having given birth, fluttering her little shawl, playing the forbidden children’s games, who this third one was, she being somewhere, neither behind, nor in front, but, nonetheless, definitely somewhere, who were they – she – he – all of them in everything – in that one – point – there in the emptiness – that all-encompassing point with no direction, without the four cardinal points, in a large dish without walls, in which you are simultaneously inside and outside of, which you fill with yourself, which you incorporate into yourself, that incorporates you into itself – you yourself like a dish that you clutch in your hand, so that you may pour yourself into it . . .

. . . I knew it would be like that, that it had already been like that, that it’s happening exactly like that over there, somewhere, where you are as if not being, but at some point you will be, and at some point have already been . . .

. . . and having heard, to the point of boredom, all the shouting, with blood gurgling, that announces transformation . . .

. . . she was shouting ceaselessly, shouting dreadfully . . .

. . . as if a gigantic lump, strained and tried to squeeze its way out into unfreedom . . .

. . . giving in to the command, clinging, grasping at the thin, smooth walls . . .

. . . she certainly was shouting . . .

. . . and when her shouting suddenly gave way to silence, and relief had set in, someone else cried out in terror, like an infant.

And silence set in, and the door opened. And he limped in and motioned with his meaty, undried hand for me to follow him, and follow I did.

It wasn’t far to go. A little bit up ahead, down the hall, through two rooms into a third, from the open door of which it was as if a rosy aura were casting a glow. The heart . . . it was probably the heart in there.

My head was aching, my stomach was aching, and, all in all, everything was aching.

They will be wanting something from me again, once again, someone will demand something that I don’t want, and I already knew that I would acquiesce.

In the room, the heart of the Lonely Rabbit was darting around, happy – now higher, now lower, now to the right, now to the left . . . no one saw it except for me. No one? Not even the lame blacksmith? Not even the woman dressed in green, lying in the bed under a bloody sheet, above whom the heart of the Lonely Rabbit, happy as if dancing in circles, was spinning around, it finally having created the miracle for which it had hungered ever so long, knowing it, eager to know it, never having experienced it, finally having at least seen it? I don’t know if this was for the best, it turning out that it knew how to be independent if it wanted to and, indeed, it seems that it wanted to. No one noticed its foolish joy except for me, could that really be?

At first I hadn’t noticed, but later on, there was someone in the corner of the room. An old lady with a sizeable bundle in her arms.

I’d not yet spoken a word, waiting to see what would happen next, but I was expecting nothing good, perhaps I should have expected something good, then it might have all happened differently, but since I was expecting nothing good, then, indeed, nothing good did happen. The lame fellow quickly leaped up, grabbing in the air – and he grabbed hold of the heart of the Lonely Rabbit.

Drat! I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

The old woman came over right away, holding out her arms. I stretched mine out to her – I had either become stupid or I was sensing the future – and she placed the bundle in my arms.

The lame fellow shoved the heart of the Lonely Rabbit into his pocket. The room turned grey. The bundle was heavy.

Everything began spinning again . . .

The old woman smiled. Her face started quivering, it was enfolded in fog, her wrinkles started to ripple, flowing out, flowing together, smoothing out . . .