Then, sitting in the semi-darkness of my own room, I feel only an unpleasant slight tingling in my fingertips. There is a fleeting tremor in the thin legs, running from the shin to the foot and back. I don't have enough strength to get up from the floor, although my coccyx already seems to be numb and burst into a cool pain from the strong pressure on the parquet during the last hour, maybe all three. Hours spent in oblivion, struggling with the strongest derealization, in the ugliness of curves and blurred images of a gloomy, dark room. I breathe surprisingly calmly until I hear a soft knock on the door, at which I quickly look up, discouraged. Then I hardly remember these clippings, blurred by my terrible memory: a joyful, unshaven face, whose expression at the moment changed to something hiding, it seems, shock, his sharp lunge out of the opening. The way he anxiously grabs me with his strong arms and hugs me to him: "Why did you do that?“ Then he looks down at my hand, cut into meat