On the bed, his head in his hands. Eyes closed, open? He doesn’t know. The room is faintly illuminated by the light falling in from the yard through the small barred window. He sits there, he has been sitting there for hours. Always in the same position, hands folded as if in prayer, face half hidden in them, elbows propped on his thighs, motionless. Time passes. He feels as if it were running away through his fingers, along his arms, down his legs to the floor. Constantly. Incessantly. And yet however slowly it moves, he cannot remember anything. Not the day, the night, the hour, the minute … it is all blurred in that faint light, that endless grey, as if he too had dissolved, as if his life were already over. Nothing is left, nothing, an endless space containing nothing, only a void. Even fear has left his mind and his body. The fear that he was still able to feel yesterday. The fear slowly crawling up his back to his head, centimetre by centimetre. The fear holding his body, himself, captive.
