We are living together; our movements are in harmony, they touch and mingle.

But all of it is empty.

We do not long for each other, we can no longer expect each other, we have no dreams, we are not happy.

It is a sort of imitation of life by phantoms, by beings who, in the distance are beings, but close by--so close--are phantoms! Then bedtime comes.

She is sleeping in the little bedroom opposite mine across the landing, less fine than mine and smaller, hung with an old and faded paper, where the patterned flowers are only an irregular relief, with traces here and there of powder, of colored dust and ashes.
We are going to separate on the landing.