In the evening they make light; at night, they put it out, and the lamps--which are in rows, like the beds, like the windows, like everything--disappear.
Just one lamp remains, in the middle, on my right.

The peaceful ghost of dead things enjoins peace.

But my eyes are open, I awake more and more.

I take hold of consciousness in the dark.
A stir is coming to life around me among the prostrate forms aligned in the beds.

This long room is immense; it has no end.