We both spell out the past, which she brings me abundantly.

My brain is working incalculably.
"We're quite near home, you know," Marie says.
Her words extricate our home, our quarter; they have endless echoes.
That day I raised myself on the bed and looked out of the window for the first time, although it had always been there, within reach of my eyes.

And I saw the sky for the first time, and a gray yard as well, where it was visibly cold, and a gray day, an ordinary day, like life, like everything.
Quickly the days wiped each other out.

Gradually I got up, in the middle of the men who had relapsed into childhood, and were awkwardly beginning again, or plaintively complaining in their beds.

I have strolled in the wards, and then along a path.