As there is no point at which one can be said to sleep. The man in the bed reflects on this. Seen as a metaphor, its inference is clear. Birth and death alike are unremembered. What cannot be remembered cannot exist. It is not real. He wonders that he has never before understood such a very simple thing. He keeps his eyes lightly closed. In the brownness behind the lids, faint colours swim. Soon, they will turn to faces. The young girl in her sky blue gown, the doctor with his beard and curly chestnut hair. He savours, without desire, the moment of return. Finally he moves his head. The young man says, ‘You are with us again.’ He smiles. He says, ‘I have never been away.’ ‘Do you wish to talk?’ He inclines his head slightly on the pillow. ‘I will tell you what I see.’ ‘And what is that?’ He considers. Finally he says, ‘A door.’ ‘What sort of door?’ ‘It’s a big door. Wide. Deep panels. It’s painted a light grey. The paint is nearly new.’ ‘What’s so important about it?’ ‘It’s closed.’ ‘And why is that?’ ‘Because I closed it myself.’ * He stirs in the bed.
